The Virus from the Valley: 1 of 3 in a Series
by Manzy
Summary: Can our boys cope with a modern-day Irene Adler, when they can barely sort out their own feelings? A modern twist on A Scandal in Bohemia, mystery, danger, romance, and eventually, S/J smooching. Set after TGG. First in a series. Complete!
1. Prologue: Boom

_Hi everyone,_

_Well, here you have it, the first chapter (technically prologue) to the first in my anticipated three-part series of canon-based Sherlock fics._

_See, Steve Moffat had to go and tease us with three words: Adler, Hound, Reichenbach. And give us an idea of what the second season of this wonderful show might contain._

_So I thought I'd take a stab at those same three words and see what I could come up with! Will I be able to come up with anything close to what Moffat and Gatiss will eventually create? No way. But I can have some fun. And in my version, Sherlock and John get to smooch!_

_This first fic is a modern reimagining of A Scandal in Bohemia, starring _the woman_, Irene Adler herself. Cookies (virtual cookies) for those who can spot all the canonical references!_

_Reviews and other thoughts are MOST welcome! _

_Manzy_

**The Virus from the Valley **

**Prologue - Boom**

"Probably my answer has crossed yours."

Sherlock and John met eyes for the smallest fraction of a second. Grey ones looking down, _Yes?_ Brown ones staring up,_ Yes_. Sherlock lowered his gun until it was pointing directly at the remnants of the Semtex vest.

John held his breath.

Sherlock's hand tightened on the trigger.

Moriarty smirked.

And suddenly, a faint metallic _clink_ echoed throughout the concrete room. For a moment, John thought he was imagining things, until another reverberating _clink_ filled the air. Sherlock's gun hand remained steady, but his eyes searched the room for the source of the sound.

"What's going on?"

Moriarty grinned, which turned gradually into what John could only describe, his stomach lurching, as a giggle fit. He was still laughing when a third and fourth _clink_ filled the room.

"Oh, this is too, too precious!" Moriarty managed to gasp.

Sherlock looked down at John. "John, what-"

John shook his head. "No idea, none—"

Another _clink_, very close by this time, and John's eyes grew wide as a cheap, £1 laser pointer bounced off the ground near his leg, caromed off the wall next to him, then rolled to a stop next to his foot.

Sherlock and John met each other's gaze, then each immediately scanned the other for signs of laser targets. All were gone.

Moriarty was still howling with laughter on his side of the pool. "That was beautifully done, boys, gorgeous! Oh, thank you so, so much!" He began to applaud and walk toward them. Sherlock immediately fixed his aim once again on the other man.

"What are you playing at, Moriarty?"

Moriarty rolled his eyes and let out an overdramatic sigh. "Oh, sweetie, please, enough with the hero-in-the-line-of-fire routine. Game's over."

"From where I stand," Sherlock said, the fear in his eyes turning over into anger, "I win. Gun to your head, sort of gives me the advantage."

"Sherlock, baby, I understand that you're not at your best right now—" Moriarty taunted, glancing at John on the floor—"what with your little doggie all placed-in-mortal-peril and whatnot, but do attempt to think." Moriarty reached into his suit jacket and pulled out a small remote. "Um, hi, trigger device? Really, I didn't go through all the trouble and expense of making another bomb vest without having _some_ way of lighting it up." Moriarty dissolved into giggles again. "Get it? Lighting it up? Did you like the laser pointer thing? Oh my word, the looks on your faces."

Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut, clearly angry at himself. Moriarty's laughter, high and shrill, filled the echoing room. John, recovering a bit, staggered to his feet. "What has this been about, you maniac? The sniper threats, the kidnapping…if it was all a bluff, why—"

Moriarty once again quelled his laughter. "It was an experiment, Rover. I needed some information from my favorite Dynamic Duo. Thought I had all I needed after your momentary heroics, Fido, but then I realized I couldn't be quite certain of my results without a bit more…evidence." He stared hard at Sherlock, who for the first time that evening, was staring not at Moriarty or John but at the tiled floor of the pool's edge.

Moriarty continued. "I think I've got all I need now, though. It's been very, _very_ interesting having a proper chat. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'll be off. Feel free to keep my laser pointers as a little souvenir of the occasion. Oh, and _duh_, but if you try to follow me or stop me in any way…" he lifted the triggering device and waggled it, grinning.

John looked quickly at Sherlock, expecting him to have an ace up his sleeve, but the detective was staring into the middle distance, lost in his own head. It was for John to act.

"Moriarty! How do I know that's not another bluff?" Moriarty turned and stared at John. John continued, "I could have you face-down on the concrete before you could move another muscle." He tensed, ready to spring if necessary.

Moriarty dropped his shoulders. "As sexy as that sounds, Rin Tin Tin, you're not my type. But to answer your question—" He lifted the trigger device into the air, and pressed a button.

On the ground, the lights on the bomb-vest changed from blue to red. John inhaled.

"—if you're still here in 30 seconds, you can find out firsthand whether I'm bluffing or not. Pip pip, my lovelies!" With that, Moriarty tossed the trigger device lazily into the pool, spun on his heel and raced out the door.

The next twenty-five seconds seemed to stretch for an eternity. John, shaking Sherlock, attempting to snap him out of his reverie. The detective, lost in the force of his own ideas, looking from the bomb to John to the door that provided Moriarty's exit. A thought flashing across his face. John, shouting, screaming, hitting Sherlock, anything to get him to stop thinking, stop planning, stop trying to _win_ and start trying to _run_. Feet hitting tiled floors as John half ran, half dragged Sherlock toward the exit. John tripping, falling, _hurting_, fading. Sherlock suddenly realizing, Sherlock lifting, holding, carrying, opening—

BOOM.


	2. Chapter 1: Does John Know?

**Chapter 1 – Does John Know?**

Mycroft climbed the stairs to his office, strong cup of English Breakfast in hand. He huffed only a little after the fourth flight of stairs—_exercise must be paying off,_ he thought to himself as he pushed open the door into the hallway. The lights were still dim; Mycroft liked to get in early, especially when he knew he'd be having a long day.

He sipped his tea—wincing, too hot—as he walked to his office. It would most assuredly be a long day today. Adding security at the borders was easy enough, there were always a dozen ongoing excuses to do that, but explaining away the pool explosion after Scotland Yard had spent several days chasing a rogue bomber around London? That would take some doing. The Yardies weren't that daft, no matter what his little brother might think.

Reaching his office, Mycroft fumbled in his pocket for a moment, reaching for his office key, then stopped. He paused for a moment, considering. Then he reached out and tried the doorknob, which turned easily. He smiled slantwise and stepped into his office.

"Morning, Sherlock."

Sherlock stepped out of the shadows in Mycroft's office. "No forced entry. No stray hairs. No fingerprints. Not a tumbler or screw out of place. Yet you knew I was here." It wasn't quite a question.

"You already know how, Sherlock, because there's only one explanation." Mycroft dropped his coat and bag on his chair and his tea on the desk. Hands in his pockets, he turned to face Sherlock.

"You knew I was coming." Sherlock stared at Mycroft, his expression firm and difficult to read.

"Of course you were coming." Mycroft said. "You've just had the most trying night of your career, and the man you were hunting got away. When things like that happen, it pays to have a brother in government." He attempted a joke. "Even if you feel you need to break into the Houses of Parliament in order to see him."

Sherlock grimaced. "I assume you've already upped border security?"

"Naturally."

"And Scotland Yard? What did you tell them?"

"Very little. My team has taken over the investigation, citing enhanced national security risk. I wasn't able to keep everything from the Detective Inspector, but the rest won't know anything about Jim Moriarty unless we tell them."

At the sound of the name, Sherlock jolted as if struck, but his expression remained firm. "Good. If Moriarty thought every policeman in London knew of him, he'd leave the country, if he hasn't already, never return."

"And you'd never have a chance to have a go with him again. That would be a pity, eh Sherlock?"

Sherlock did not answer. Mycroft stepped closer. "Isn't that what you're here for, information? A chance to catch up with him again? I've been watching you this week, Sherlock, I haven't seen you this lively in ages. You're at the top of your game, and this Moriarty character—"

"That's not—" Sherlock started to shout, then balled his hands into fists and took a breath. "That's not it, Mycroft."

Mycroft blinked. "It isn't?"

"You couldn't work it out, between your brilliance and your surveillance? You honestly don't know what I need from you?"

Mycroft sat down and folded his hands. Sherlock was standing over him, angry, shaking he was so angry. Sherlock rarely got truly angry—frustrated, impatient, loud, but never angry. Mycroft's next words were spoken with genuine concern. "What do you need, Sherlock?"

Sherlock swallowed. "Protection."

"Protection? You're asking me to protect you? Honestly, I really don't think you—"

"Not me, you imbecile."

Mycroft's eyes widened as Sherlock continued. "Yes, there, you have it now. I'm not talking about me, I'm talking about—"

"Doctor Watson."

"—John."

The room was completely still as both men drew in breath. Something changed on Mycroft's expression, something only a brother would know him well enough to notice. Sherlock sniffed and turned away.

Mycroft inhaled. "How's he doing?"

"I'm here, aren't I?"

Mycroft nodded. "I take it he's fine, then."

"Resting comfortably at Bart's. Injuries mostly superficial. Shouldn't be laid up long. He…he got us away from the worst of it before it went off." Sherlock's voice was scratchy and breathless, his eyes far away.

"Good." Mycroft waited a moment, but Sherlock continued to stare out his office window into the sunrise, his back to Mycroft. "I assume you'd want it to be subtle…the protection, I mean. John Watson doesn't seem like the type who would appreciate…"

"Can you do it, Mycroft?"

Mycroft frowned. "Sherlock…"

"Can you do it?" Sherlock whirled to face him, and grey eyes met grey eyes in a fierce glare.

Mycroft nodded. "But Sherlock, it's a great expense, and frankly, a risk. This isn't merely reprogramming some CCTV cameras. You know what you're asking for?"

Sherlock nodded. "Yes."

"And you know—" Mycroft paused, considering his next statement carefully—"you know it'll likely mean that someday, I'll need to use your talents in return."

Sherlock paused, then nodded again. "Yes."

Mycroft shook his head. "I'm sorry, Sherlock, but I have to ask. Why? All these years and you've never shown a hint of wanting my help before. In fact, I think you're proud you've gone along without official support. What's changed?"

Sherlock didn't answer, but he didn't really have to. Mycroft took it all in at a glance—the dark circles under his eyes, hands balled into fists and shaking, eyes watery and glazed, skulking about in his hated brother's office when he could have been out chasing Moriarty. Asking for protection for a man who could clearly take care of himself. Asking his brother—his _archenemy,_ to use his term—for favors.

Mycroft took in a breath. "Oh."

Sherlock said nothing.

"Moriarty knows?"

Sherlock nodded, a sick look on his face. "He didn't say it outright, but he knows. And if he knows, then…" Sherlock could not finish the thought.

Mycroft considered for a moment. If Moriarty knew Sherlock's weakness, then it wouldn't be long before the entire criminal network of London knew. John Watson would have a target on his back wherever he went, all because—

Mycroft nodded. "We'll take care of John. He'll be under our protection, Sherlock, the best men I can spare."

"The best men you have, Mycroft, the best you have!" Sherlock punched the windowframe to emphasize his words.

Mycroft held up a hand. "I assure you, no one will touch him. No matter how much of a target Moriarty makes him, we will do everything we can to keep him safe. And he won't ever suspect. You won't suspect, either, if you're not thinking about it." He paused and took a long sip of his tea. "Sherlock?"

The answer came back ragged. "Yes?"

"Does John know?"

Sherlock glared at him, the pink flush of anger—or was that embarrassment?—rising on his otherwise pale face. "Don't ask stupid questions, Mycroft."

A little something sank in Mycroft then. "Are you going to tell him?"

"What did I just say about stupid questions?"

Mycroft sighed. "You've never been in love before, Sherlock. It's more complicated than you realize."

"I really, truly, _epically_ do not want to discuss this with you."

"You might want to try telling him, someday. You could be surprised."

Sherlock stared at Mycroft. "I swear, Mycroft, if any of this gets back to John…"

"I am all discretion, my brother. I promise. I just—I just want to see you happy."

Sherlock laughed a humorless, darkened laugh. "Moriarty escaped. Lestrade and his crew don't have a clue what's happening in this city. I've come crawling to you for help like a frightened child and John—" Sherlock's voice cracked, and for one heady moment Mycroft thought there would be tears, but Sherlock swallowed and continued.

"And John. I will be many things, Mycroft, but happy…"

Sherlock turned and swept out of the office.

Mycroft spun his cup of tea in his hand, thinking of something he'd said, months ago.

_That doctor fellow. He could be the making of my brother. Or make him worse than ever._

He sipped his tea. "John Watson," he said, to no one in particular. "We will be watching you, indeed."

_OK, I think that's a good taste of what's to come! Please let me know what you think of these first few chapters!_


	3. Chapter 2: Twang, Twang, Twang

_Hi everyone! Thanks for the kind reviews on this story so far. Now, finally, we get to the heart of things—Sherlock and John, and the beginnings of the main mystery!_

_Particular thanks for reviews about characterization—one of my goals with this fic is to keep the boys as in-character as possible while slowly bringing them together. So any comments on that are especially welcome!_

_Now let's visit 221B and see what these boys are up too…_

_Manzy_

**Chapter 2 – Twang, Twang, Twang**

Late Sunday morning at 221B Baker Street. John Watson stood over a simmering tea kettle, rummaging two useable bags of PG Tips out of the utensil drawer _(why were they in the utensil drawer?)_ as he waited for the water to boil. He stretched his small frame, feeling only a little twinge in his back at the apex of his stretch._ Good_, he thought, _better every day._

_Twang, twang, twang_ came from the living room. John pressed his lips together in something halfway between a smirk and a smile. "It's not a guitar, Sherlock."

"Thank you, John, I'd worked that out for myself," came the voice from the sofa.

"I'm just saying, you might get better results if you used the bow instead of your fingers."

"It's an experiment."

John laughed. "An experiment? In what?"

The kettle began to whine, signaling water at a boil. John turned off the burner and poured two cups. Tea bags, in; milk (the _good_ milk, it was Sherlock's turn to throw out the _bad_ milk, and so help him it would sit in the fridge until he did), sugar, napkins. John noticed with a snort that Sherlock already had his hand outstretched, waiting for the cup of tea he'd assumed John was preparing for him. Shaking his head, John placed the mug in Sherlock's grip.

"Calloused fingers," Sherlock murmured.

"Eh, what?" John said, pulling his hand back a bit faster than necessary and examining his fingertips. How could Sherlock have…they'd barely touched, right?

"The experiment. It's about calloused fingers." Sherlock felt John's confused stare and rolled his eyes—only a little, John noted with some satisfaction. "Blue-collar workers, musicians, people who work with their hands, they all develop calluses. It's a huge percentage of the population, when you think about it. I'm trying to work out how long, and in what way, one needs to scrape one's skin to develop these calluses. You can learn a lot about someone from his hands."

John considered Sherlock's hands, still scraping away at the strings of his violin. "And you've just decided to run the experiment on yourself, have you? Scrape up your own fingers?" _That's going to hurt_, he thought to himself, the usual uncomfortable pang of worry pinching at his chest.

"Your concern is noted and appreciated. Forgive me if I proceed to ignore it."

It was John's turn to roll his eyes. "I'm just saying, there's probably some medical literature out there on that subject. If you like, I can even try to find—"

"I wish you wouldn't say that."

John blinked. Months with Sherlock and he still wasn't quite used to being interrupted. "Sorry?"

"'_I'm just saying'_." Sherlock sighed, eyes closed. "You've said it twice already this morning. I know you're just saying, you're the one saying it."

John flopped down into his armchair. "Just a turn of phrase."

"Wasteful. Boring. Wish you wouldn't."

The pang of worry (_was it worry, exactly_?) was now a memory, replaced with the more acceptable, better definable, and far more common emotion of frustration. "I'll keep my mouth shut then."

"I didn't ask for that," Sherlock whispered.

John sipped his tea in silence for a while. He often, honestly, didn't know why he put up with this from Sherlock. He sometimes supposed, when he wasn't quite as piqued as he was now, that it was the adventure and the sheer genius of life with Sherlock Holmes that kept him here. The cases, the deductions, the mad pace of, well, everything when you lived with the world's only consulting detective.

And it didn't hurt that, in his own cold, sociopathic way, Sherlock was his friend. At first he hadn't even been sure that Sherlock could have friends, the way he snapped at everyone, pushed them away, thought them stupid. But then small things—_I'd be lost without my blogger_—started to pop up and he started to think that maybe he was Sherlock's friend. For certain, he was Sherlock's ONLY friend, a thought which in and of itself pulled on John in a way that he wasn't entirely comfortable with.

And then there was the night three weeks ago, at the pool, the look in the taller man's eyes when he thought John was in danger, the fear, the actual fear unmasked by logic or bravado or dismissiveness, that Sherlock very clearly felt when he thought John could be killed—

But no. John was determined not to think about that right now. This morning, right now, with the _twang twang twang _and the eyerolling and the nitpicking his grammar, Sherlock wasn't being a hero. Sherlock was being a _prat _and John was determined to be angry at him about it. Sighing loudly, he reached over and grabbed his book of crossword puzzles off of the coffee table.

"Oh, for God's sake, Sherlock!"

"I thought you'd decided to be quiet."

"You've filled in all my puzzles!"

"Oh, that. Got bored."

"And you used MY book to solve that problem?"

"Technically speaking, no."

"Technically speaking? Sherlock, the puzzles are all filled in. Who else did it, the skull?"

"You implied the book solved the problem. It didn't. Pick up a harder set next time."

John groaned. "I spent £10 on this book, I was hoping it would last for a while."

"As I said, get a harder book next time and perhaps it will."

John guzzled the rest of his tea and got up. "As a matter of fact, I will. I'm going down to Foyle's right now and I'm buying myself another book. I'm taking a 10-pound-note out of your wallet to cover it. Then I'm going to lock it in my room when I get back so you can't get your bloody _calloused _hands all over it." He tossed his mug in the sink and grabbed his coat.

"Oh, don't get sulky. It's really not cute when you sulk."

John froze for a moment. "Please Sherlock, on top of everything else, don't call me cute."

There was a pause. "Noted," Sherlock said.

John put his coat on, that weirdly uncomfortable pang rising in his chest again. He took Sherlock's wallet from the side table and grabbed a handful of bills.

"I'm leaving."

"When will you be back?"

"Dunno."

"Can you pick me up a box of patches while you're out?"

"Sod your patches, Sherlock."

John stomped his way down the steps, the _twang twang twang_ continuing quietly behind him. _I swear, if he could only treat me like a human being occasionally, maybe sometime when I'm not being held at gunpoint…_ John wasn't actually sure how he would finish that thought. Of course, he wasn't actually sure that Sherlock could ever treat him like a human being, so really, it didn't matter, did it? Maybe this would be a good reason to go see Sarah. It had been a few days…

He was halfway down the block to the Tube station when his phone went off.

**Forwarding you an email I just received. Need your thoughts.**

**SH**

With a second vibration, the email icon on John's phone lit up.

John stuffed his phone into his jacket pocket and continued walking. For exactly five steps. Then he stopped, cringed, abused himself verbally for a moment, pulled the phone out of his pocket, and opened the email from Sherlock.

**To: sherlocksh .uk**

**From: wo **

**Dear Mr. Holmes,**

**A potential client and influential man would very much like to speak with you—it's important. Your recent work with the Royal Bank of London was sensational—we think you're someone who can be trusted to deal with some things discretely. Please be home Sunday afternoon, around 1 o'clock.**

John checked his watch. 11:53. He glanced at the phone, the Tube station in the distance, then back up Baker Street toward the flat.

"John Hamish Watson, you are a bloody idiot," he sighed to himself and walked back up Baker Street toward 221B.


	4. Chapter 3: The Story of Chris Kramm

_As some of you noted from last chapter, the plot thickens! Here we have my first attempt at some classic Sherlockian deduction, and we introduce our client for the case. Lots of references to the original Scandal in Bohemia here, for the sharp-eyed canon fans among you!_

_I am sure my attempt at deductions is not as sharp as either Arthur Conan Doyle or Gatiss/Moffat, but I gave it my best! Thoughts are most welcome!_

_And thank you to those of you who said the characters are spot on. I am trying so hard to keep them themselves, because I love them that way!_

_Oh, and an important note: In the last chapter, the email addresses wouldn't format properly. I wouldn't care except it's crucial for the deduction scene in this chapter, so just for better reading:_

_Sherlock's email address is sherlocksh AT scienceofdeduction DOT co DOT uk (Anyone know where I got SherlockSH from? _^_^_)_

_The client's email address is wo AT epg DOT com. _

**Chapter 3 – The Story of Chris Kramm**

Sherlock was exactly where John had left him when he returned to the flat.

"Find a good book?" Sherlock offered.

"You know bloody well I didn't get to the bookstore. What's this email about?"

Sherlock smiled and sat up. "That's what I'm hoping you can help me with, John."

"Well, if nothing else, it's a case, isn't it? At least you'll have something on. It's been a while since…" John trailed off and Sherlock didn't complete the statement. Both men had settled into an uneasy silence surrounding the incident at the pool that had been the culmination of Sherlock's last case. They had also reached some kind of tacit agreement not to speak about the fact that Moriarty was, for all they knew, still very much at large.

Sherlock had tried, of course. While John was convalescing, Sherlock had collected every scrap of information he could find about James Moriarty (_Professor _James Moriarty, John reminded himself – Sherlock had discovered that someone had actually awarded that psychopath a Doctorate in Criminology, of all things). But the trail had soon gone ice-cold and Sherlock had let it go. _Data_, he'd said, _I've got barely any data. Dangerous to hypothesize without data. _

Sherlock finally spoke, breaking the tension. "You're right, it's a potential case. Now granted, I generally hate playing PI for people. Chasing down unfaithful lovers, clearing up people's financial woes, it's all so utterly beneath me." He reached over, grabbed his phone, and pulled up the email. "But this…this is very interesting indeed. I might just take this on."

John cocked his head to the side. "Just because of this email? What's so special about it?"

Sherlock smiled sideways in that smarmy way that made John just a little bit uncomfortable. "Come on John, have a go. What can you deduce from it?"

"What, from this? It's just an email, Sherlock, there's obviously nothing—"

"Right, and when people choose to ingest poison it's _obviously _suicide." Sherlock fixed John in a stare. "Come on, John."

John rolled his eyes. There was no getting out of this one. "Um…ok." He pulled up the email on his phone screen again. "Well, for starters, I don't recognize the address on the email account. Must be a company email address or something."

Sherlock nodded. "Good, John. Anything else?"

"The writer has spelled 'mister' using a full stop. American, then?"

"Punctuated."

"What?"

"He _punctuated_ 'mister' with a full stop. Not spelled. But yes, American, good catch, John," Sherlock offered. Not sure whether to be insulted or pleased at Sherlock's reaction, and still waiting for the other shoe to drop, John continued to scan the email.

"I—I don't know, Sherlock, I can't get anything else. There's nothing in any of these sentences that's unusual, nothing that jumps out."

Sherlock sighed. "Really, John, I've seen you do better than that." He stood up, and John braced himself for what was coming.

"John, remember my methods. Now, what do you notice about the style of writing?"

"Um, I dunno, it's normal, I guess."

"Exactly, John! When you write an email, how often do you use phrases like 'would very much like to', take the trouble to type out dashes, capitalize everything, punctuate properly? Really, when was the last time you sent an email with a _salutation_?"

"Couldn't he just be being polite? He is looking to hire you, after all."

"Does someone looking to be polite simply announce that he's coming and expect you to be present and waiting for him?"

"Good point."

"So, we have a formal writing style but someone who doesn't necessarily feel a sense of formality toward the person to whom he's writing. Therefore, the man we're dealing with is—"

"Snotty?"

"John, you're not even trying, I know it. He's intelligent. And not just intelligent, that particular kind of intelligent that finds things like proper grammar and capitalization very important. We're dealing with a – oh, what's the common parlance again - a 'nerd' here, John."

"I seem to recall you being rather fixated on my grammar and punctuation this morning, Sherlock. What does that make you?"

"It makes me the world's only consulting detective. Now—" he continued, barreling through John's comment like it never happened, "—someone smart, someone detail-oriented, someone, yes, nerdy, sends this particular email from this particular email address. _Wo at EPG dot com._ You deduced, correctly, that this isn't a common email server, therefore it is likely a company email address. And if epg-dot-com is the email server, then…" a few clicks on his phone and Sherlock had the website. He brandished the phone screen before John like an athlete who'd just won a medal.

"Electronic Programming Group?"

"EPG, exactly. It's a programming company, a tech start-up, out of Silicon Valley."

"So a computer programmer." John nodded. "That would fit the nerd assumption."

Sherlock groaned. "It's a deduction, John, not an assumption, and please try to go deeper. Look at the actual address. Wo? What kind of address is that, especially for a company email address? Most companies assign full name email addresses to their employees. Then there's the extremely important fact that this particular employee, with the very odd company email account, is reaching out to me on a matter of importance requiring discretion, and feels free and easy enough to determine when and where we'll be meeting without my answer. Who in the world would fit that description?"

"Enough, Sherlock. Can you just tell me?"

"No, no, I think I'll let him tell you himself," Sherlock said, smiling out the window.

"Wait, he's here?" Sure enough, John heard the rumble of an automobile engine stopping below their windows. John checked the clock on his phone. "It's a quarter to one! Why didn't you tell me what time it was?" John shot out of his chair. "The flat's a bloody mess!"

Sherlock smiled and stared out the window as John raced around the living room, tidying piles of papers and tossing old dishes—some very old dishes, judging by what was growing on them—into the sink.

There was a ring at the doorbell. John took a spin around and decided that was as good as it was going to get. "Right, that must be him. I'll just be in my room then."

Sherlock glanced at him, puzzled. "And miss all the fun? That would be a pity. Stay, sit." Sherlock grabbed the Union Jack pillow from the sofa, plopped it onto the easy chair, and gestured grandly. John couldn't help but smile.

"Fine. But if anyone comments on the state of the flat, you're taking the blame."

Moments later there was a knock on their living room door, and Sherlock offered a "Come in!"

The man who entered did not at all fit John's image of the stereotypical computer nerd. He was tall, taller than Sherlock even, though with John's muscular build. The only detail of his wardrobe that would have given away his computer career was his thick—very thick, unusually think, John thought—plastic-rimmed glasses, which distorted his face and made it hard to get a good look at his features. The rest of his outfit, though—scuffed trainers, jeans, a loose-fitting Yale hoodie worn over an oversized t-shirt—was every bit the American tourist in London. He took in the flat at a glance—John saw his eyes land briefly on the skull on the mantelpiece and mentally kicked himself for not stuffing it into the sofa cushions—and then the stranger spoke.

"Got my email?" he said in his American accent. "I tried to be on time."

"Please, sit," Sherlock said, smiling and waving a hand toward the sofa. John tried to keep from laughing—Sherlock the sociopath could certainly pretend, at least, to have social graces when it was to his benefit. _Why doesn't he ever think it's to his benefit to be a little nicer to me?_ John wondered absently.

Sherlock continued. "As you know, I am Sherlock Holmes, detective, and this is my friend and colleague, Doctor John Watson. You are?"

The tall man blinked. "Oh yeah, I suppose I haven't introduced myself. Kramm, Chris Kramm, nice to meet you both." Chris shook hands with Sherlock and reached over to shake John's, but hesitated a moment, eyeing John strangely.

Sherlock took a long blink, and John knew it was to hide an exaggerated eye roll. "Mr Kramm, my colleague is a man in whom I have the utmost trust and on whom I rely utterly. He was absolutely essential to my success in the Bank of London case. I'm certain that you can—"

"If it'd be better for me to leave—" John began, rising from his seat.

"I'm certain that you can say before this man anything you wish to say to me," Sherlock finished, shoving John back into the chair with a heavy hand on his shoulder. The visitor seemed to consider this for a moment.

Sherlock smiled his best I'm-losing-my-patience-and-trying-not-to-show-it smile. "It is both or none, I'm afraid."

John tried to keep his features neutral—there was a potential paying client in the room, after all, he should try to look professional—but Sherlock's words made him strangely warm inside and he had to fight to suppress a smile. Friend and colleague? Absolutely essential? Both or none? How many people had Sherlock spoken of like this in his life? John's reason told him that Sherlock was being warmer than usual, politer than usual, because he wanted to ensure the case, but something other than reason—something that came from the same place as the too-familiar pang of worry—made John hope that these weren't outright lies.

Despite himself, John Watson cared that Sherlock cared.

"All right, I suppose that's OK," Chris said after a moment, nodding. "I really do need your help, and your work with the Bank of London really was sensational. The news made it all the way back to the States." He sat himself on the sofa. "Hey, is that a real skull?"

Sherlock put his hands in his pockets. "The sooner you tell me the details of your situation, the sooner I can begin to help you and your company, Mr Chairman."

"OK, well, see, I have—" Chris began. The next moment he stood, a strange look on his face. "Mr Chairman? What are you talking about? I'm—I'm not the chairman of anything, I'm just an employee, you see, I never—"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. Chris paused. He then rolled his eyes, removed the ridiculously-huge glasses from his face, and sat back down, rubbing his eyes with his hands. "Oh, who am I kidding?"

John looked back and forth between the two men. "Um, what just happened?"

Sherlock was beaming. "John, I'd like to introduce you to William Ormstein, President, Chairman, and CEO of EPG, one of the most successful computer programming and consulting firms based in Silicon Valley."

John gaped as Chris—no, William—laughed. "Well, they told me you were the best, and clearly you've got my number. I probably shouldn't have even bothered."

Sherlock nodded. "It's true, I knew who you were before you even walked in the door. I'm sure you thought your personal work email address was vague enough not to give you away, but Doctor Watson and I saw through that very quickly."

John whistled softly. Now, of course, it all made sense—the email address was William Ormstein's initials, the kind of email address only a CEO or other major company executive would or could choose for himself. This also explained the easy way with which the man had assumed the time of his visit—someone with a vast tech fortune was probably used to setting his own terms, even if he meant it in a non-threatening way. But it was one thing to understand it all now, with the man in front of him. To figure it all out sight unseen—John, even after all this time, never failed to be astounded by his flatmate's deductive abilities. What astounded him even more was Sherlock's continued insistence that John had had anything to do with it. He decided to take it as a compliment, smiling to himself as the conversation continued.

"My what?" William said, then realization dawned. "Oh, yes. Funny, that's never given me away before. Most people don't pay attention to that sort of thing."

"That's why most people aren't consulting detectives. Now, Mr Ormstein—"

"Please, call me William."

"William, I am very, very curious to know why an American tech billionaire is seeking the services of a British consulting detective, far from home, under a false name, demanding a face-to-face meeting, and avoiding the attention of the media and the police. Now please, there's no more need for subterfuge."

William sighed. "All right, here goes. Before I started EPG, maybe a decade or so ago, I was a freelance programmer, taking on temp work here and there, trying to make ends meet—god, the rents in the Valley were so—" he paused, and John didn't wonder why, Sherlock's impatience was palpable—"well, anyway, around that time some friends and I, well…we got bored."

Sherlock smirked. John inwardly groaned. The word _bored_ was fast becoming his least favorite in the English lexicon.

"I wrote a virus—a computer virus. It was a thing back then, you know—the ILOVEYOU virus had just swept across the country, national headlines, and all of us, we wanted to see if we could beat it, make a better one. We all gave it a try. Mine," John found that William couldn't surpress a smile, "mine was the best. Would read your browsing history, take screenshots of your most-visited websites and then send infinite copies to your inbox and those of your email contacts."

John's eyes widened, thinking about the potential damage—not to mention embarrassment—such a virus would cause. "Wow, that has a lot of potential to be very…not good."

Sherlock stood at the window, running a hand over the sill. "But you never launched it?"

William looked up. "No, oh jeez, no. It was all about the skill, the programming. Being smart. None of us really wanted to, you know, get in trouble." William swallowed, wringing his hands. "We shared copies with each other, on CD-ROM, tried them out on old, garbage computers on a protected intranet. Just fooling around."

John groaned. "Copies?" He thought he saw where this was going, and it wasn't anywhere good.

William winced, confirming John's suspicions. "A few months went by, we got tired of the game, the news faded from the headlines. About a year or so later we all got together to destroy the CD-ROMs. The programs had never been run on internet-enabled machines, and I could have sworn we'd destroyed all the copies, but—"

"—but one's still out there." Sherlock finished.

William nodded. "Someone's got a copy of my virus, Mr Holmes. Contacted me, showed it to me. And they're threatening to use it."

"He or she."

"What?"

"_Someone_ is a singular noun. The pronoun to match it must also be singular. Not _they_. _He_. Or _She_."

William sighed. "She."

"Name?"

"Irene Adler."

"And who is this Irene Adler to you?"

William blushed. John didn't need to be a consulting detective to get a sense of what was going on. "She wasn't really one of the group, she was so young at the time. She was my—well, we never really—it was kind of, you know, friends with benefits?"

Sherlock sighed. "So how much does she want?"

"That's the thing, Mr. Holmes. She hasn't asked for any money. I even offered to buy her off, but she won't sell."

"Interesting. And if she uses this virus, the damage will be catastrophic."

William nodded. "Exactly. And that's not all."

"Not all?"

William blushed deeper, this time out of shame. "It was part of the game, you see. What good was writing the world's most effective and painful computer virus if no one knew you had done it?"

"Oh, I see. It's got some kind of signature in it."

"An e-signature. Certain patterns in the code, certain nuances of program performance. Anyone with a passing familiarity with programs I'd written would be able to trace it directly back to me."

John shook his head. _No wonder this bloke didn't want to go to the police_. Sherlock, for his part, kept his features blank. "So, the facts are these. Irene Adler has your computer virus, got it from you on a CD-ROM. If she uses it, and she's threatening to do so, she not only causes millions of pounds of computer damage worldwide, and probably damages some reputations along the way, but you get implicated in the crime because the evidence would suggest you had sent out the virus."

William sighed. "I'd be completely ruined. EPG would be destroyed. Oh, all my employees…" he dropped his head into his hands. John found himself thinking _poor sod_ and then remembered that this poor sod had written a dangerous virus just to show up his friends. Could you think someone a _poor sod_ and a _complete tosser_ at the same time?

Sherlock continued. "I take it Irene is in London or the vicinity, which is why you came to me."

"Yes, she's been living in London for a while. Only contacted me recently though."

"What would have induced her to suddenly reach out, after all those years?"

"I have no idea. Like I said, she hasn't demanded money."

"You're certain of that?"

"Yes. I've offered so, so much, and still no."

"Have you tried taking the disc back from her?"

"You mean, breaking into her home and stealing it?"

His face held indignation, but as Sherlock stared him down, it melted into a surly compliance. "We tried. Twice. Hired men. No luck. We couldn't even find a computer in her flat. We also tried a purse-snatcher, once, in case she was keeping it with her. Still nothing."

Sherlock laughed dryly. "Well, this is a pretty little problem."

William scoffed. "It's a bit more than that to me, and really, to the world if she does what she threatens to do."

"How do you know she hasn't done it yet?"

"Oh, we'd know. Everything with a microchip and an internet connection would be frozen and unusable within hours."

John thought of lifts, hospital equipment, the Ministry of Defense…and then he noticed Sherlock absently stroking his Blackberry. _Of course his first thought would be for his text-message-machine._

"You'll be staying in London for the time being, William?"

"Yes, the Hilton at Paddington Station."

"Then we shall contact you there when we have a result."

"Please do. I won't be able to sleep until this is resolved." William stood and turned toward the door.

"And—" Sherlock continued, "—expenses?"

John shot a look at Sherlock, but William just cocked his head to one side and pulled a billfold from the pocket of his jeans. "Here—" he said while counting, "—is $15,000. Sorry it's in American dollars, I didn't have time to hit the exchange on my way. Consider it an advance."

John boggled. That was very close to £10,000—and that was just the advance? Sherlock, unflappable as always, took the bills with his left hand and shook William's hand with his right. "And one more thing, William," Sherlock finished. "You do have Irene's London address, don't you?"

Moments later, Sherlock had the address keyed into his Blackberry contacts and William Ormstein was driving back to his Paddington hotel. John, for his part, was holding an embarrassingly-large stack of American currency and trying to do the math on how many months' rent he held in his hands.

"Well, John, I'd say that was a bit more interesting than crossword puzzles, wouldn't you?" Sherlock said, that big, charming I-have-a-case grin spreading across his cheeks.

John tried to keep his features deadpan. "Well, it's not a good healthy murder, but creative theft, with a side of blackmail and a dash of international high-tech danger will do in a pinch, I suppose." He threw a sideways glance at Sherlock. "Ten thousand quid buys an awful lot of puzzle books, though."

Sherlock stared at him for a beat. Then the detective laughed, placed both hands on the side of John's face, pulled him in and—_what in bloody hell_—placed a rough kiss on the top of his head before shoving him away and whirling to face the window. "Oh John, I do so love it when you're in top form. Now, all we need to do is—"

"Did you just kiss me?"

"All we need to do—" Sherlock continued, ignoring him, though John couldn't miss a slight rising pinkness in the other man's cheeks, "is visit this address and see what we can learn, and of course, see if the Yard can be of any help. You never know, they could surprise us."

"Did you just—"

"_John_. I need you to go to the Yard, talk to Lestrade, ask about Irene Adler." Sherlock crossed the room in two strides and threw John his coat.

"Wait, Sherlock."

"No waiting! You go! I need to get to Adler's address." Sherlock was shoving him out the door, with all his usual haste and a little bit extra besides.

"No, Sherlock, wait a tic, for heaven's sake!"

Sherlock did, in fact, pause for a moment. He caught John's eye and something seemed to soften, just a bit, in his expression. John thought he saw a hint of something like fear—something that brought to mind laser sights and Semtex vests—but it was gone in a heartbeat. "John, I'm sure you've noticed my tendency to get rather excited when in the midst of my practice. I assure you, I had no intention of bruising your frankly alarmingly-fragile male ego, and it won't happen agai—"

"No no, Sherlock, forget it," John waved away Sherlock's train of thought. "You go mental when you're on a scent, it's good, it's all fine. What I meant to say—"

"We're good then?"

"What. I. Meant. To. Say. Was. If this Irene Adler wanted some kind of revenge, she'd have used the virus by now. If she wanted William's money, she could have had it. So, what on earth does she want?"

Sherlock's expression was strange, difficult to read. "I think once we know a little more about Miss Adler, we'll get to understanding her motives." He trailed off. "Where did I leave my mobile?"

"Next to the skull, I think. Shall I off to the currency exchange, then?"

Sherlock nodded, his back to John. John shrugged, checked his pockets to make sure the money was safely stowed, and started down the stairs. The prospect of ten thousand quid was quite pressingly on his mind. _For ten thousand quid, Sherlock can kiss me as much as he wants_, he thought with a smile.


	5. Chapter 4: Idiot

_Hello again, fellow Sherlockians!_

_We interrupt your regularly-scheduled mystery for a bit of introspective Sherlock angst. Since we live in John's head for much of this fic, I wanted to give readers a few glimpses into what's going on in Sherlock's, since of course it's his brilliant brain that drives the mystery forward!_

_Many kind thanks to all of my reviewers so far-you've helped me feel like I'm on the right track with this, which is a great feeling! I especially appreciate the comments that say "This feels so much like watching the show!" because that, above everything, is what I'm going for with this story._

_And yes, we're taking our dear sweet time getting to the smooching. It's coming, I promise, but both S and J have some mental gymnastics to do before they're ready for that..._

_Manzy_

**Chapter 4 – Idiot**

Sherlock counted seventeen steps and heard the front door slam. He glanced out the window and saw John hurrying across Baker Street in the direction of the Tube station. Only when he was absolutely certain that John was out of sight did he pick up his skull and hurl it across the flat.

_Idiot, idiot, idiot,_ he thought to himself, over and over and over again, pulling at his dark hair and pacing back and forth across the flat. A few months ago he would never have dared to let anyone use that word in reference to himself, much less use it as his own label, but John Watson had to go and change that. John _bloody stupid foolish ridiculous wonderful amazing_ JohnWatson.

Things used to be so simple. Solve a case, have a smoke. Or a _smoke, _or a pill, or a needle, depending on how the case had gone. Go to The Bad Place, talk to the skull, then talk to no one for days on end. Text from Lestrade, or sometimes from Mycroft, off to solve another. And so it went.

_And now there is John, with his stupid tea and his stupid sweaters and his stupid girlfriend (stupid stupid stupid girlfriend) and his stupid puzzle books and his stupid loyalty and his stupid saving my stupid life all the time and and and…_

Sherlock gasped and threw himself into a chair. _Feelings_. Good god, is this what everyone else went around feeling like all the time, with their ridiculous _feelings_ leaking out of every pore like a biological experiment gone horribly wrong? No, even experiments, even the odd ones, did predictable things. This was unpredictable and unexplainable and definitely not logical and not good at all.

Except…except when it was. Except when John placed a mug of tea—never too hot—in Sherlock's waiting hand. It was a puzzle, that tea was—Sherlock knew how to boil water, how to steep tea for the proper amount of time, how to spoon sugar, but Sherlock's tea wasn't John's tea. John's tea was _good. _

Except when John came home with the groceries, shouting a warm greeting—was John capable of any other kind of greeting?—to Mrs. Hudson, and tromping up the stairs. "I'm home, Sherlock. Have you eaten yet?"

Except when Sherlock was whirring around at the speed of deduction, rattling off fact after logical fact while everyone around him stared with their mouths gaping and there was John, silly stupid amazing JOHN, not just following his logic but nodding and smiling…

Oh god, John's smile. Despite himself, Sherlock let out what was supposed to be a groan and came out uncomfortably close to a whimper. He had tried dozens—hundreds—of times to figure out what it was that made John special, that, out of all the people who had come and gone out of Sherlock's life, made John Watson the man he loved. And he couldn't solve it. John was the one unsolvable puzzle. The closest he could come was that when John smiled, Sherlock felt GOOD. It was a dumb reason, and it made no sense, and it was stupid stupid stupid and it was GOOD.

The kiss was a mistake. Sherlock Holmes did not make mistakes, but he had seen others make mistakes, knew what mistakes looked like, and that was definitely one of them. He'd been trying _so hard_, ever since the night at the pool, ever since he had realized…trying so hard to keep it in, to hold it back, to not let it show. And then, one instant, one millisecond of his life that he lets go, stops thinking, and he makes a stupid mistake. It's John's fault, really, getting into the case with him, being so clever, being so funny, being so cute…

_Please Sherlock, on top of everything else, don't call me cute._

Sherlock tucked his knees under his chin. That was the problem, though, wasn't it? Everything would be fine if he could just tell John what was going on, if he could act on these emotions, take them to their logical conclusion—or as logical as emotions could get anyway.

But Sherlock had seen enough of the world to know that it wasn't going to happen. John wanted a woman. Though Sherlock had, since very soon after they met, kept his radar active for any sign, even a little one, that John could ever be interested in a man, he was disappointed at every turn. Men, generally, wanted women. If a man who wanted women was approached by another man—well you didn't need to be Sherlock Holmes (you didn't even need to be DI Lestrade) to know things weren't going to end well.

The logical thing to do would be to stop feeling this way. No hope of a reasonable outcome to these feelings, so they should just shut down. When you cannot win at chess you tip your king, when you cannot win at cards you fold your hand. And he had been trying, my God how he had been trying. Since the moment he'd worked out his feelings toward John, Sherlock had been tamping then down with all his might and still, he seemed utterly unable to relinquish them. If anything, they kept_ leaking _out of him, pouring out all over the flat and John and himself and everything.

And now Moriarty knew about them. Though not a whisper had been heard of or from Moriarty since the night at the pool, Sherlock could not stop thinking about him because Moriarty _knew_. His greatest weakness had been exposed to his greatest enemy. Sherlock replayed the moment endlessly in his mind.

_A smile and a shrug. "If you don't back off…I'll burn you. I will burn the _heart _out of you."_

_Steady, steady, you can get John out of here. "I have been reliably informed that I don't have one."_

_A laugh, a glance toward the other man in the room. "But we both know that's not quite true."_

John was Sherlock's heart and Moriarty knew it. Moriarty was made stronger and Sherlock…Sherlock was left a mess. Such a mess, he now apparently couldn't even control his random impulses, as evidenced by the (_stupidstupidstupid_) kiss. How was he supposed to keep John safe?

Hence the deal with Mycroft. The deal that he hated, that John, if he ever were to know, would hate. But there was no alternative. No way out, no way back. Only forward, into the jaws of unreasonable, ridiculous, stupidly idiotic love, into whatever had to happen to keep John safe and to keep him _here_.

Sherlock couldn't have John. But he could be near him. He could love him. He could protect him. And he could be his friend. Those were things he had never felt or wanted to feel toward any other human being—logically, that should be more than enough to attain emotional satisfaction and release him from this misery.

But the skull lolling in the corner, one bicuspid knocked loose by the force with which it had careened off the wall, told the ridiculous, illogical truth.

Sherlock sighed and did his best to swallow the worst of this emotional wave as he pulled up Irene Adler's address on his mobile. Then, he performed a search around the address, looking for something that might…ah, there it was.

Sherlock stood and straightened his jacket. At least, right now, he had the work.


	6. Chapter 5: Sidekicks and Hard Hats

_And we're back! Back to John and back to all-important plot movement!_

_I had an absolute blast writing this chapter. The Yardies are surprisingly fun to write for (oh Anderson, you insufferable git, you) and the final scene in 221B...well, I'll leave it to you guys to tell me what you liked about it, because I like pretty much every syllable!_

_And we also have several lovely canon references and allusions, which are so much fun to throw in. _

_Enjoy! Review! Tell your friends! :-)_

_Manzy_

**Chapter 5 – Sidekicks and Hard Hats**

The Tube ride to the Yard was fairly short. After hitting, in quick succession, the currency exchange and the bank (_no more losing rows with chip and pin machines, _he had thought to himself, wryly) John had texted Lestrade on his way over, announcing his imminent arrival, so the Detective Inspector was waiting for him at the front desk to show him past security.

"It's not more on Moriarty, is it? Has Sherlock found something?" Lestrade asked as the lift brought them up to the fourth floor and his primary offices. Lestrade was one of the only Yardies that knew even a little about Moriarty, and though the case had been officially taken up by the Secret Service, John knew he still clamored for information about it.

"No, no, sorry," John said. "We actually need a background check run on someone. Sherlock's got a private case on."

Lestrade stared at him. "Doctor, I know I owe that man all manner of favors, but seriously, he can't expect the police to run background checks for him at public expense for all of his private cases."

John blinked. _Oh, right_. He was so used to the police jumping when Sherlock said jump that he'd failed to even consider that the jumping usually happened due to official police business. But their client, Ormstein, had been avoiding going to the police, so John asking for police help was dancing dangerously close to breaking some kind of law, he was sure of it.

Seeing the confusion on John's face, Lestrade sighed. "Oh don't worry, I don't blame you. It's a bit of a relief, actually. Usually he comes himself and then I have to listen to him and Anderson squawk at each other while I run the reports."

John smiled at that as the men exited the lift. Lestrade continued as they made their way to his desk.

"I suppose I'll regret asking, but what's he got on?"

"Blackmail case. Well, we think it's a blackmail case. But the suspect hasn't actually done any blackmailing, yet." John continued, "So technically, there hasn't been a crime."

"And so technically, you're not breaking any laws by withholding the case from me," Lestrade offered with a smile. "And further technically, I'm only breaking minor police protocols by helping you."

They had reached his office. Lestrade took a seat at his computer and began typing away. John stood for a moment and looked out the window. Lestrade had a nice view of Westminster from his window—the towers of Westminster Abbey were clearly visible, with a partial view of Big Ben itself.

"Name?" Lestrade asked.

"Hmm? Oh, Adler, Irene Adler?"

"British National?"

"No, American."

Lestrade sighed. "So Interpol will have to be pulled as well. Damn that man."

John smiled. Even without being present, Sherlock had the ability to make people do what he wanted. He laughed a little at that, then realized that here he was halfway across London, doing what Sherlock wanted. He was surprised at how little that bothered him.

"Geoff," a familiar voice rang out behind John, and he turned. _Oh bloody hell—Anderson_. "Geoff, I finally got the evidence kits from that attempted rape in Covent Garden. It should only be a few hours and then we'll—" Anderson stopped when he saw John at the window. "Oh, Dr. Watson, hello. Finally turning your flatmate in for illegal possession? Or maybe evidence tampering?"

He said the words with a smile, almost like he was joking—almost like he was joking _with John_, that John was supposed to join in the fun of saying these things about Sherlock. The familiar _pang_ shot through his chest again and he repressed the urge to grab Anderson and fling him out the window. Instead, he forced a return smile.

"No, Anderson, just asking Lestrade for a hand with something."

"And you're helping, Geoff? You know this has something to do with the Freak and his private practice—his illegal, off the books practice, if you recall? Why any of us should make any effort for the likes of that psychopath—"

"That psychopath—" Lestrade interrupted, "—is responsible for our solving six of the last eight cold cases that came through this office, Anderson." Lestrade looked worn, like he'd had this conversation before. "And he probably would have done all eight if he didn't object to your presence at crime scenes."

"I'm the bloody police officer, not him. I can be there if I like."

John, who had been watching this whole exchange with the pang in his chest growing into outright anger, finally spoke up. "He's not a psychopath."

Both officers turned their heads to him. Anderson spoke. "Psychopath, sociopath, whatever word he wants to use for it, he's still a freak and he's still not an officer of the law. I don't know why any of us waste any breath on him at all."

"I'll thank you to watch your tone, Anderson, please." John noticed, with some amusement, that Anderson used Lestrade's first name but Lestrade did not use his. Apparently Sherlock wasn't the only person he knew who harbored some negativity toward the forensics expert.

"What? Oh, fine, Geoff, fine." Anderson sighed and turned to go, lingering for a moment on John. "Sorry for you, Dr. Watson, having to pop all over London for your sodding flatmate. Why you let him order you about I'll never know…"

John's whole body tensed. "I'm sorry?"

"Well, you're here because of him, right? Because he told you to come? Seems like he takes advantage, is all I'm saying."

John tried to relax his hands, which, he realized, he had balled into fists. Suddenly the nice, not-bothered feeling from a moment ago was a distant memory. "When I want your opinion, I'll ask for it, Anderson."

Anderson sighed. "Oh here we go, Dr. Watson in faithful-dog mode. Really, doctor, find a new flat before we lose all hope for you."

"Enough!" Lestrade interrupted. "From both of you," he emphasized, casting a glance over at John. "Anderson, if you have evidence kits to work on, I think you'd best be off to do that. Doctor, come here, I think I have what you were looking for." Anderson swept out of the room, shaking his head. John took a deep breath, shook himself out, and moved toward Lestrade's desk.

"Yep, here we go. Adler, Irene. 28 years old, from New Brunswick, New Jersey. Has lived in New York, California, Ohio, Maryland, now in London. Went to Oberlin for uni…worked for the Baltimore Opera for a time…" Lestrade finished scanning. "That's it."

John took a step back. "That's it?"

"Well, unless you need her credit score, that's all I've got. No criminal record, no convictions, not even an arrest. I don't think she's gotten so much as a speeding ticket." He placed his hands behind his head. "Seems like a nice lady. Are we sure she's a blackmailer?"

"Pretty sure…" John answered, but his mind was elsewhere. Anderson was a git, of course, but something in his words—something about the way he had sneered _find a new flat before we lose all hope for you _made John tense and oddly self-conscious. Just what exactly did people around here think of him?

"Sorry, doctor," Lestrade finished. "Looks like your errand was for nothing."

"Yeah, nothing." John moved to leave the office. "I'll show myself out, OK?"

"No problem, and Doctor?" Lestrade called after him. John stopped. "Do let me know if he gets into anything over his head, OK?"

John nodded and left, carrying his tense feelings with him all the way out of the building.

XXX

John returned to 221B to find it empty, which was just as well. His row with Anderson had gotten him worked up and he needed some time to come down from that. Hanging up his jacket and pouring himself a glass of water, John settled into his favorite chair, placed the Union Jack pillow on his lap, and thought.

_Why you let him order you about I'll never know…_

Despite himself, John had to admit that the words set him off not because they were wrong but because, in many ways, they were right. He did let Sherlock order him about, and he, too, didn't know why most of the time. He told himself it was out of admiration for Sherlock's gifts, something he'd never bothered trying to conceal, or maybe out of his deep connection to the man who refused to run when John had given him the chance, the man who would rather have stayed and died with John than ran and lived without him. John knew very well the kinds of bonds forged on the battlefield, and the loyalty that ran thick in a soldier's veins.

And yet, he wasn't sharing rooms with any old military friends. He barely kept in touch with them, actually. And he certainly wasn't flitting about London at their beck and call. These things he reserved only for Sherlock.

John shifted in his chair as other, more painful, memories bubbled up.

_People do get so sentimental about their pets…_

_Your little doggie all placed-in-mortal-peril…_

_It was an experiment, Rover…_

John Watson was no one's pet. Neither was he a sidekick, a crony, a peon, or an accomplice. Occasionally he'd let Sherlock get away with the term _assistant_, but that was only because John knew how Sherlock defined _assistant_: the one person on the planet who can actually understand him.

But if all of John's spirit rebelled against Anderson's words and, certainly, Moriarty's words, why did he find himself repeatedly acting like…acting like…well, acting like _a faithful dog_?

It didn't make sense. He knew Sherlock had a charisma about him that he could turn up at a moment's notice when it suited him. He could manipulate witnesses, run riot over the detective squad, make Molly Hooper jump with a wave of his hand…

Ugh, _blimey_. The last person John wanted to be comparing himself to was Molly _bloody_ Hooper.

And he didn't think Sherlock was manipulating him. If anything, Sherlock was more straightforward, more transparent with John than with anyone else.

So it came down to the only explanation—John did these things because he wanted to. And not just the dangerous things, the ones that steadied his hand and focused his vision—the little things too. Popping down to the Yard when Sherlock was needed elsewhere. Picking up the shopping, even when it wasn't his turn, because Sherlock was in the middle of something. Returning to Baker Street from the other side of London at the chirp of a text.

But why John wanted to—why Sherlock made him want to, even without doing a thing—well, that he just couldn't fathom. An answer seemed to float along the edges of his mind, but he couldn't pin it down and identify it.

John looked down and realized that he'd been clutching the Union Jack pillow to his chest for most of his reverie. He jolted out of it and relaxed his arms, leaving the pillow on his lap, and took a sip of water. Sherlock may have deduced everything about John from his haircut and his mobile, but John would probably be better off, he thought, not attempting to deduce anything about Sherlock. The remote was only a few inches away, and after the day he'd been having, a few hours of crap telly seemed just the thing…

XXX

John hadn't realized he'd fallen asleep until he was woken up. Someone was banging, rather insistently, on the front door to 221B. Sleepily, John eyed the telly—the Sunday evening news, meaning it was past 6. Who was bothering him at suppertime?

He groaned and sat up. "Mrs. Hudson?"

No answer except for more banging. John stood, letting the pillow fall to the floor, and lumbered downstairs. Leave it to Mrs. Hudson to always be around when she wasn't needed and never around when she was.

"All right, all right, I'm coming," John shouted at the door. He swung the front door wide and came face-to-face with a tall, burly construction worker.

"Evenin', mate," the construction worker offered from under his bright orange hard hat, "we've had some reports o' gas leaks in the area. Mind if I pop up for a tic, test the air in the flat?"

John stared at the man, took in his long beard, beady eyes, thick shoulders. "I'm sorry, what?"

"Right-o, then I'll just be headin' up," the construction worker said, pushing past John into the hallway.

"H-Hang on," John said, starting to wake up, "shouldn't you take this up with my landlady? Honestly, my name's not even on the lease, I really think—" He followed the construction worker upstairs, noticing with dismay the muddy mess the other man was leaving from his large work boots.

"Won't be a moment, won't be a moment, two shakes to check the atmosphere, and Bob's yer uncle."

"No, listen, really, the flat's not in any state for—" Suddenly John froze. Sherlock was out, Mrs. Hudson was out, Moriarty was at large, and he'd just let a complete stranger, a much larger complete stranger, into his flat with relatively little protest.

_Oh John Watson, you are an idiot. _

"Now see here," John said in a much different voice. The construction worker turned and stared at him. "I don't know who you are or what you want, but I am telling you to leave my flat right now, or there will be consequences."

"Whaddayer mean, consequences?" The construction worker's tone was difficult to read.

John took a breath. "I have a revolver in my sitting room. More to the point, I happen to share rooms with one of the most dangerous men in London. A brilliant detective and a first-class fighter. Black belt in, um, something, _baritsu _or something. Anyway, that's not the point." John glared into the construction worker's grey eyes, determined not to lose steam. "If you don't leave now, if you do anything to hurt me or the flat, or anything against my express wishes, you will have to deal with not only me, but also Sherlock Holmes."

The construction worker nodded. "Well, when ya put it that way…" He reached up and pulled off his hard hat.

John nearly fell over. "S-h-Sherlock? It's you?"

Sure enough, with the hard hat off, John was greeted to the familiar sight of a head full of black curls. This, plus the now-obvious twinkle in the other man's no-longer-beady grey eyes, made the real identity of the construction worker painfully clear.

Sherlock broke into a grin. "Evening, John. Remind me to make a note of how kind you are to unexpected guests."

"Hang on, what's all this about? Why on earth are you dressed like…like…like Bob the Bloody Builder?"

Sherlock shrugged off his orange construction worker's vest to reveal a flannel shirt and—John could barely fathom it—_overalls_ underneath. "The art of disguise, John. You know my methods. I've been spending all day at a construction site across the street from Irene Adler's London address."

John blinked. "That's where you've been?"

Sherlock unbuttoned his flannel and John realized that he was wearing padding on his arms and chest to look more muscular than he was. "Of course. I told you I'd be going to see her flat. You didn't think I'd just ring the doorbell, did you?"

"The thought had crossed my mind."

"Yes John, but only an idiot opens the door to a complete stranger."

John paused for a beat, then rolled his eyes. "Oh sod off, Sherlock." Despite himself, he smiled. "So did you learn anything, Construction Worker Bob?"

"I'd been going by Andy all day, but yes, I learned quite a bit." Sherlock continued to remove his disguise, picking up a washrag and wiping his face. When he pulled it away, the beard, the fake beard, came with it. John shook his head. _Stage makeup_. "I learned that Irene Adler is a very attractive woman, and that anyone who lives within a five-block radius of her knows it. I learned that she's often seen coming home at odd hours, on the arms of different men each time, and from the way the others were talking, it's not their _arms_ that she's ultimately interested in."

John raised his eyebrows in respect. He'd never have thought to gather data on a suspect this way, but now that he listened to Sherlock's rundown, this was all information that any bawdy group of working men would have access to, especially about an attractive foreign lady.

"It also," Sherlock continued, "seems she's an accomplished singer—they can hear her when she leaves her windows open and the jackhammers aren't going. Word on the site is that she's trying to go professional, singing at London clubs to make a name for herself. Ridiculous, of course—not the singing but the making a name. If Adler wanted notoriety, being the former lover of William Ormstein would do it for her. So she's not singing for money, but for pleasure, probably several different kinds of pleasure given her reputation around the site. And I have a pretty good idea of where she'll be singing tomorrow night." Sherlock dug into a pocket and pulled out an advertisement for a club in Soho. "Open mic, every Monday, not far from Adler's address. The clientele more than matches the description of the men she's seen coming home with, and the operating hours would explain her coming and going at odd times. Irene Adler will be at this club tomorrow night. That's when we strike."

"Excellent!" John breathed.

"Elementary," said Sherlock, scoffing a little but a pleasant pinkness rising to his cheeks nonetheless. "I'm almost afraid to ask, but did you learn anything at the Yard?"

John shook himself and remembered what he'd been doing all day. "No, sorry. Lestrade ran a background check, searched for her in the police records. She's clean, or at least, if she's not clean she hasn't been caught for anything yet."

"Definitely the latter. I'm certain this woman is on an entirely different level than the common criminal classes." He looked at John. "Make sure you're not doing anything tomorrow night. I'll need your assistance in this matter."

John took one slow blink—there was that word again, _assistant_—but let it slide. If this was what it meant to be Shelock's assistant, to go on mad adventures around London, _in disguise _for heaven's sake, then everyone else could think what they wanted.

"You know it, Sherlock."

The two men regarded each other for a moment. Suddenly, John broke into an infectious giggle. Sherlock, puzzled but amiable, began to smile in return.

"What?" Sherlock asked.

"Nothing, nothing, just…'Bob's yer uncle'?" He met Sherlock's gaze, mirth in his eyes as the ridiculousness of Sherlock's disguise, and his reaction to it, finally sunk in.

Sherlock grinned back. "'Now see here'?"

"'Right-o'?"

"'_Baritsu_'?" Both men were laughing outright now, John with his hands on his knees to steady himself from the giggles. "What was that supposed to be?"

"Oh bloody hell, Sherlock, I can't keep these things straight. What is it, again?"

"_Jiu jitsu_, John, I have a black belt in _jiu jitsu_. Really now. _Baritsu_. Who'd make such a mistake?"

"You definitely called it _baritsu_, once."

"I never did."

"Did so."

"Best not to argue with me, John. I have it on good authority that I am one of the most dangerous men in London."

"Sod _off_, Sherlock."

John Watson was no one's sidekick. For tonight, though, he was perfectly content to be someone's comedic foil, as long as that someone was his extraordinary flatmate. And if he laughed a little harder than he normally would at Sherlock's bad jokes, he dismissed it as nothing more than the product of a very long day, the energy of having a new case, and the absurdity of seeing Sherlock in a hard hat and overalls.


	7. Chapter 6: Air

**Chapter 6 – Air**

Sherlock stepped into his bedroom and shut the door behind him. He leaned back against it and, to his own surprise, grinned.

It had been a lovely night with John.

Certainly, Sherlock prided himself on appearing the perfect sociopath—cold, aloof, locked away, unreachable. And he'd practiced that air so often and so well that he could play it as adeptly as any Bach etude. But like a long piece of violin music, one could play it beautifully, flawlessly, and still be exhausted at the end. In fact, the better the performance, the more drained the artist when the curtain drops.

And this performance—pretending nothing had changed, pretending his realization on the night of the pool incident hadn't occurred, locking away his feelings—it was taking everything out of him. He had slipped, several times, cracks had shown in his flawless façade, because it was just overpowering. Sometimes just looking at John—John home from clinic, John throwing his jacket on to go do the shopping, even, Sherlock laughed to himself, John getting angry—was enough to steal the very air from his lungs.

After all, John _was_ the air in Sherlock's lungs, in many ways. It was entirely due to him that the detective was still breathing.

And Sherlock knew the act was necessary. Not only to throw the criminal classes off the scent, to make it possible, even a little possible, that Moriarty's knowledge wouldn't spread, wouldn't be trusted, but because Sherlock knew what would happen if John ever found out.

John would leave.

And all of Sherlock's air would go away.

So he was trapped in this exhausting, impossible performance—except for nights like tonight. John had been amazed, impressed by Sherlock's disguise and his detective skills, forgiving his deception at the front door like it hadn't even happened. They had joked, they had laughed, they had made tea and called for Indian take-away, they had watched some crap telly (John had watched some crap telly, Sherlock had, very carefully, watched John watching crap telly) and told some personal stories and as the night wore on, they had relaxed into that comfortable, soft silence that bespeaks a relationship that requires no words. Only when John had nodded off on the couch, sliding just a little in Sherlock's direction as his body relaxed, waking with a start when his shoulder bumped Sherlock's, did the doctor decide that it was time to end the evening and go properly to bed.

It had taken all of Sherlock's considerable practiced self-control not to grab John then and there and never let him go. But heading to his own room, Sherlock hadn't felt frustrated or exhausted. He had been free and easy tonight with John, almost like…

_Oh no, Holmes, don't let yourself… _

…almost like they really could love each other, someday.

Sherlock slid down the door a few inches, reproaching himself for allowing such a thought to escape the recesses of his hard drive, but nonetheless still smiling. The wonder that was John and the wonderful evening they had shared was still dancing warmly and softly in his chest, and Sherlock, hedonistically, wanted to hold onto it as long as he could. He was unused to the pleasant lightness of _feelings_ (some feelings, anyway) and didn't want it to end. He might actually sleep tonight, might actually dream, and those dreams might actually contain John. His lungs were filled with John and he wanted nothing to take that away.

The buzzing of his phone, though, would do just that.

**From: ENCRYPTED**

**Subject: John Watson Surveillance – Day 23**

**Sherlock,**

**John's movements were normal today. A brief departure from Baker Street nearly to the Tube Station and back again, followed later that day by a trip to New Scotland Yard. He was not followed. There were no unusual incidents.**

**There was a visitor to 221B. The individual in question is classified as nonthreatening to Dr. Watson. No alerts raised. **

**We still have not received so much as a breath of new information on James Moriarty. The airwaves contain no chatter. It is as if he never existed.**

**Please, Sherlock, be extra careful.**

**M**

Sherlock finished reading the email, the smile sliding off his face.

_Oh._

It's odd, he mused, how the "oh" moment was usually so exhilarating. The moment of realization, or remembrance, or addition of two separate elements into a whole, revealing a truth. Usually so wonderful. Yet some "oh" moments stole the very oxygen from the room.

Mycroft had promised that even Sherlock, who had requested the surveillance in the first place, wouldn't know it was there if he wasn't thinking about it. And tonight, he hadn't been thinking about it. And he had forgotten it was there. And he had forgotten _why_ it was there.

The wonderful warm Johnness in his chest was blown away.

He, Sherlock, was_ lying_ to John. Maybe to protect him, maybe to keep him safe, but he was lying. To _John. _The John he told himself he loved. The John, he'd been almost able to convince himself a moment ago, who might someday love him back.

_Sherlock Holmes, you are a fool. _

Sherlock shoved his phone back in his pocket and left the room, heading back to the living room and staring out the window. He would not be sleeping tonight, and there would be no dreams.


	8. Chapter 7: Awkwardness

**Chapter 7 – Awkwardness**

Monday morning dawned brightly, and John rose early for his shift at the clinic. Sherlock was quiet through breakfast, and a bit twitchy—John knew the fact that he had to wait until nightfall to make his move on Adler was probably weighing on his mind. It was almost a relief to have his clinic work to do—the prospect of spending all day with an impatient Sherlock Holmes was a bit too much for him. Plus he hadn't seen Sarah in a few days.

John thought about Sarah on his walk to the clinic. She was a nice enough girl—pretty, smart, funny—but the relationship didn't seem to be getting off the ground floor. At first, he'd blamed the disastrous first date, but Sarah had seemed unperturbed by the whole business and had invited him out for coffee the very next day. She'd also been exceptionally understanding about the whole crashing-on-her-sofa thing, and at least open to the idea that someday, John would get promoted to sleeping on other, more companionable pieces of furniture.

But then there had been the incident at the pool, and John's subsequent hospital stay, and this seemed to change something in her. She visited him in the hospital, once, but seemed reluctant to be there—odd for a medical professional. They'd had coffee when he got out, made polite conversation, Sarah ducking away at the end without so much as a handshake. And their shifts seemed to overlap less often at the clinic these days. She hadn't cut him loose, but she wasn't pushing for more either, and John knew that if something didn't change soon, he'd be out of chances with her.

John let out a foggy breath in the crisp morning. He was bothered by the fact that he wasn't that bothered by this, if that made any sense. Girlfriend, marriage, house in Richmond, maybe a private practice, children, public schools for the children—that's what he wanted, right?

Honestly, some days it seemed like he wanted Sherlock and the skull and 221B more than he wanted any of that.

John pushed all of this out of his mind as he entered the clinic. Time to focus on his work.

A flash of red hair at the reception desk made it all too likely that focus would be impossible. "Oh…hi, John," Sarah greeted him, smiling, but not with her eyes.

John hoped his expression looked less chagrined than he felt. "Hey, Sarah."

Well…this was starting out swimmingly.

XXX

At lunch, John invited Sarah to pop out with him to the Pret a Manger, mostly because he felt like he should. He grabbed a juice and an egg salad sandwich, Sarah, lentil soup and a cappuccino. They sat at a window table.

"So…fought any Chinese smugglers lately?" he attempted.

Sarah smiled. "No, no, I'm off smugglers these days. Had a row with some pirates in the Docklands the other day, but you know, it's just not the same."

John nodded. They both sipped their drinks.

"Seen any interesting cases at the clinic recently?" he tried again.

"No, not really, just the usual. It's flu season, so a lot of that."

"You'd think people would just get flu shots, you know?"

"Yeah, true."

Sip.

John began to feel a creeping dread. This was Not. Going. Well. He was about to try _Read any good books lately?_ when Sarah began.

"Listen, John, I want to say—"

At that moment, John's phone chirped in his pocket. Never so grateful for a distraction, John pulled it out.

**Text from Sherlock Holmes**

**13:17**

**221B. Now. WO is being annoying.**

**SH**

John's eyes flicked to his half-finished sandwich, and up to Sarah. Her expression was difficult to read, but John was pretty sure he saw annoyance, and quite possibly, resignation. He swallowed.

"Sorry," he offered, gesturing with his phone. "Won't be a minute."

She smiled. "I'm sure it's important. Go ahead."

John decided not to bother trying to work out if that was sarcasm or not. He texted back.

**At work. Is it important?**

**JW**

Sarah sat sipping her cappuccino as the reply came back, lightning-fast.

**Idiot thinks case is solved. Coming to 221B. Will be here in twenty minutes. Need you. Now.**

**SH**

John was sitting across a table from his maybe-not-quite-but-could-be girlfriend, and all he could think about was the words **Need you. Now.** glowing up at him from his mobile.

"Sarah," he started, slowly and carefully. "Would it be all right if I—"

"Go," she said, staring out the window. Then, as if realizing how harsh she sounded, she turned to him and tried a smile. "Go ahead, I mean. We've got a light load at the clinic today. And like I said, I'm sure it's important." There was a question behind her eyes, but John was fairly certain he knew the answer and very certain he didn't want to talk about it right now.

John picked up, muttered some kind of apology, and left. As he hit the sidewalk he began his response.

**On my way. Try not to kill him if he gets there first.**

**JW**

**I promise nothing. I suggest you hurry.**

**SH**

For the first time since leaving the flat that morning, John smiled.

XXX

Ormstein did beat John to 221B, but only just. As he made his way up the stairs he could hear the ongoing conversation.

"So really, I'm quite relieved. Already made my reservations for a flight back to the States."

"Have you now?" The ice in Sherlock's reply was so obvious that John wondered that Ormstein didn't keel over with frostbite. He made his way through the open living room door.

"Hey Sherlock, Mr Ormstein."

"William, I told you. Nice to see you again. I was just stopping by to thank Sherlock for his help before I head home."

John cocked his head to the side. "Head home?" He glanced at Sherlock and found the taller man fairly glowing with anger, his expression of _oh-dear-God-I'm-surrounded-by-idiots_ planted firmly on his features. Clearly Sherlock and Ormstein were talking at cross-purposes.

"Yes, everything's all sorted out now, see?" He reached over and handed John a CD-ROM and a small note. "This came to my hotel for me today. My God, what a relief!"

John took in the items in his hand. The CD-ROM was unlabeled, probably a personal CD-R. In small, neat handwriting, someone had written something in black Sharpie, and over that, in more florid writing, someone else had written _To William_ in blue Sharpie. He unfolded the note.

**My dear William,**

**Well, you are persistent. I suppose that's why you're a billionaire now and I'm still seeking my millions. Honestly, I only meant to have a little fun with you, but you seemed so upset the last time we talked. Can you blame me for wanting your attention again after all these years? **

**Here's the CD-ROM – it's got what you need. Destroy the disc if you like, or keep it as a memory of me. I won't bother you again. **

**Reeny Adler**

John raised an eyebrow. "Reeny?"

Ormstein blushed. "Just a pet name. Anyway, that's that. I have my disc back. What a load off my mind," he said, sinking into the sofa.

John glanced at Sherlock, who was now staring out the window, arms folded across his chest. "And you're absolutely certain this is the disc?" John asked.

"Oh yes. I recognize the previous writing. That was my original label. Without question, that's the disc."

He seemed totally convinced, but something still didn't feel right, and Sherlock's reaction to this whole business added strength to his uncertainty. "So, you're really convinced it's all over? Did you check the disc, make sure it's what she says it is?"

Before Ormstein could reply, Sherlock snapped in. "My God, does it hurt? Does it physically hurt to carry around that much sheer, concentrated stupidity?" He whirled at Ormstein, eyes blazing. "She's playing you, it's obvious, completely obvious."

Ormstein rose from the couch again to look Sherlock in the eye. "Really Mr Holmes, I'm willing to let you keep the remainder of the advance you haven't spent, but if you continue to disrespect me I may reconsider."

"Come on, you can't be that blinkered. Read the note, really _read_ it. She never says that the disc contains the virus, and openly admits to trying to prank you. This doesn't make any sense, and this isn't over."

"Listen, I know Reeny—Irene. If I feel she's being honest, then she's being honest."

At the word_ feel_, Sherlock's eyes rolled so high up into his forehead John thought they'd bobble right out of his head. "Fine, you moron, I'll prove it to you." With that, he snatched the disc out of John's hands and dropped it into John's laptop.

Ormstein gasped. "What are you doing, you idiot? That program is highly infective! If you so much as open it on an Internet enabled computer—"

But Sherlock was already clicking away, loading the disc on the computer, digging through the files.

Even John had to twitch at this. "Er, Sherlock, are you sure that's a good idea? I mean, if there's even a chance that William is right—"

Sherlock shot him a piercing glare as he spun the laptop around. "Here's what's on your CD-ROM, Mr. Chairman."

John looked at the screen—and then instantly looked away, blushing crimson. What he had gotten a good look at was not a computer virus or anything of the sort. It was a photo of Irene Adler—he assumed it was, anyway, for it was a very attractive woman—wearing nothing but pants and a winking smile. In her hands she held a handwritten sign reading "Gotcha!"

Ormstein blushed and turned away. "I-I-I-" He seemed unable to get his thought started.

Sherlock slammed the laptop shut. "Next time, Mr Ormstein, if you could kindly remember that_ I am right _and _you are wrong_, we could all save ourselves a great deal of time and frustration." He shoved the laptop away and John had to catch it to keep it from careening off the table.

Willam Ormstein ran a hand through his hair. "I'll just—change my flight time, I suppose."

"I'd recommend it," Sherlock hissed.

"And you'll, you'll let me know when things are well and truly finished?"

"I will, Mr Ormstein. Now, please do not call on me again until I've reached out first."

Ormstein, flustered and blushing, nodded and stumbled out of the flat.

Sherlock stood by the mantelpiece, running a finger along the top of the skull. "John, John, why is the world made up of morons?"

John half-laughed. "I dunno, this Irene Adler seems pretty sharp."

"Good point. And at least the man I share rooms with is half-awake."

John flooded with warmth at this, as close to a compliment as Sherlock ever came. "So that makes three non-morons. We could almost have a game of non-moron bridge."

Sherlock smiled and fiddled with the jackknife on the mantelpiece. "I don't know if I'd want to invite _Reeny_ to our bridge game, would you?"

John smirked. "I dunno, maybe if it was Strip Bridge…"

Sherlock's face fell—plummeted, really, given how fast he went from smiling to darkly serious. "Well anyway, John, I need you to help me prepare for tonight. We have to strike at Adler while she's out at this club."

John was puzzled as to why the conversation suddenly seemed tenser, but shook it off. "Right. I suppose I'll need to change, then."

Sherlock looked him over. "Yes, I believe so."

"Will we need any special tools?"

Sherlock frowned. "Tools?"

"You know, crowbar, pliers, something to get in? You cased her flat, how hard is this going to be?"

Sherlock blinked, then broke into a wide grin. "You think we're breaking into her flat."

John startled. "We're not?"

"No. Don't be silly, John, or I'm going to end up playing non-moron bridge by myself." Sherlock was practically giggling. "Why would we go to her flat? Ormstein's hired men already tried that. The virus isn't there. Furthermore, the disc that Ormstein just took was almost certainly the original CD-ROM, just re-written with Adler's picture. I very much doubt there's even a disc anywhere to steal."

John flopped into his armchair. "So, when you said we would strike at Adler on Monday night—"

"—I meant exactly that. We need Adler, herself, to get to the bottom of all of this."

"So we're just going to find Adler and what, force a confession?"

"Of course not." Sherlock was radiant, glowing with excitement. "Why would we need to force her to do anything, when I can so very easily get her to give me what I need?"

"Give you? What's she going to give you? And why would she give you anything, anyway?"

"She will not be able to refuse." Sherlock gave a little hop of satisfaction, and the words _cute when he's like this_ popped into John's brain and he quickly dismissed them, replacing them with the next idea growing in his brain.

"So, Sherlock…if we're not going to her flat…does that mean we're going to…" he stared at Sherlock, eyes filled with dread.

Sherlock patted him on the shoulder. "Like you were saying, you'll need to change."


	9. Chapter 8: The DJ Diogenes Club

**Chapter 8 – The DJ Diogenes Club Monday Mic Night**

John Watson really liked London, always had. Liked the fact that it was both huge and somehow also cozy, liked the history, the winding streets and the pace of life. He loved to walk the Thames, stroll the parks, even visit the museums when the mood was on him. Stanford had been right about him—he wouldn't have been happy living anywhere else.

But there were, of course, parts of London that John could do without. He hated the Tube, like most Londoners hate the Tube, like teenagers hate their parents- microscopically aware of every flaw and yet grudgingly acknowledging his complete dependence. He thought the London Eye, though pretty, was rather overrated and certainly not worth nearly twenty quid. And he, an army veteran and sensible sort of man, absolutely despised the London club scene.

So on that Monday night, John found himself questioning just how exactly Sherlock _bloody_ Holmes had gotten him standing in line for an exclusive little acoustic club in Soho, surrounded by the worst clichés of London hipsterdom, in his tightest jeans, a black jumper, and a bomber jacket (the only outfit he owned that would even remotely fit the setting), feeling like the punch line to a very unfunny joke, while Sherlock stood next to him, suited up in his usual black-and-white ensemble, texting madly, looking for all the world like he was born to read beat poetry and drink absinthe and spout philosophy amongst the twentysomethings around them.

John hadn't even been able to get Sarah to join him. Once Sherlock had made it clear where they'd be going tonight, John had given her a call, invited her along, attempted to smooth things over from their disastrous lunch, but had only gotten a _Maybe some other time_ for his pains.

"Stop that," Sherlock said, not taking his eyes off his phone.

"Stop what?"

"Stop thinking so loudly. It's unpleasant. Or if you insist on thinking, think nice things about me while you're at it."

John cast his eyes toward heaven. "Sherlock, why do I have to be here?"

"We covered this, John. I need a wingman."

John opened his mouth, closed it, decided not to comment on the utter lunacy of Sherlock needing anything remotely like a _wingman_, and opened it again. "No, I mean, how is being here going to help us, really? We don't need to find Adler, we need to find the computer program."

"We need Adler to get to the program."

"What, she'll have brought it with her to the—" John glanced up, "the DJ Diogenes Club Monday Mic Night?"

"Won't she have?"

"Sherlock, honestly, the woman isn't going to bring a copy of the world's most potent computer virus with her to an open mic night and_ for gods sake who are you still texting_?"

Sherlock looked up. "Lestrade. I need to be sure he's going to be ready to play his part tonight."

"What part? Next you'll be telling me he's going to come stand in line with us, bring his harmonica."

"Don't be absurd. Our dear friend the DI is obviously an accomplished accordionist. It's all in the wrists, John."

"It's all in the-what?" John gaped, then reluctantly let it turn into a smile when he noticed the taller man, almost imperceptibly, smirking. "You're taking the mickey out of me."

"Good deduction."

"Funny, you are. As if you haven't messed with me enough tonight. I look like an extra in a boy band music video."

"Oh shut up John, you look fantastic."

Both men took in sharp breaths at that statement. Neither, however, needed to respond, because a moment later they were interrupted.

"John!"

John turned around in line and saw Sarah making her way toward him through the crowd. Sherlock didn't even bother trying to hide his eyeroll as he went right back to his mobile. John, for his part, attempted a smile.

"H-Hi, Sarah, I thought you said—"

"I know, I know, but then I thought, why not? We haven't been out properly since—" John and Sarah both examined the sidewalk for a moment—"well, have we ever been out properly?"

John laughed, a bit higher and tighter than he meant to. "Well, I'm glad you came."

"Should be fun," Sarah said. "Hello, Sherlock."

Nothing. After a beat, Sarah continued. "Well, anyway, you look nice tonight."

John straightened and pulled at the lapels of his jacket. "You think so?"

"I do! Very hip."

"Extra in a boy band video…" Sherlock mumbled to John, low enough for Sarah not to hear.

"Now who's thinking loudly and unpleasantly?" John fired back.

Minutes later, the three were inside the club at a corner table, facing the small stage. A few university boys with cheap guitars scratchily sang Pavement songs dedicated to (usually ex-)girlfriends. A young lady with purple-streaked hair and more piercings than John cared to count (_It took three surgeries to get the metal bits out of me_, John thought, _why do people deliberately put them in?)_ rattled off poetry about the wind and the moon and the chemicals in her purple-streaked hair. Sherlock sat silently, eyes never leaving the stage, long fingers drumming on the sticky table. The wait staff placed a glass of water in front of him. It stayed untouched. John had a pint. And another pint. And attempted small talk with Sarah.

"So John, how's your sister?"

"Harry? Oh, she's good, good."

"Haven't called her recently, have you?"

"Er, well, no, now you mention."

"Is she living in London?"

"Amesbury, actually. She's never been a big fan of-OW!"

Sherlock had stabbed him between his fourth and fifth rib with his inhumanly sharp elbow. "John." Sherlock flicked his chin in the direction of the stage and John followed his glance.

A woman—the same woman John remembered from the photo, though, thankfully, fully-clothed this time—was taking the stage. She was petite, no more than 1.5 meters, and even from several tables back John could make out that her eyes were a brilliant blue. Her dark hair matched her dark dress, and when she shyly tucked a piece of hair behind her ear, most of the men in the room audibly inhaled.

Sherlock, however, inhaled when she reached down and pulled a violin from its case.

"Hello, everyone," she said, her American accent filling the room. "My name is Irene. I'm going to play and sing for you tonight, a piece by Vaughan Williams. I hope you like it."

There was a murmur in the room, and John got the sense that Vaughan Willams wasn't often on the docket at DJ Diogenes, but she was cute and American and disarming and no one was going to tell her to do anything but take up that violin and play.

And play she did, and sing:

_Oh see how thick the goldcup flowers_

_Are lying in field and lane,_

_With dandelions to tell the hours_

_That never are told again._

_Oh may I squire you round the meads_

_And pick you posies gay?_

_'Twill do no harm to take my arm._

_"You may, young man, you may."_

"Wow," Sarah whispered. "She's very good. I didn't know you could accompany yourself on the violin."

"Yes, indeed," John offered, but as Irene Adler continued to sing, John's attention was on someone else entirely.

Sherlock Holmes was—there was no other word for it—_entranced._

_Ah, spring was sent for lass and lad,_

_'Tis now the blood runs gold,_

_And man and maid had best be glad_

_Before the world is old._

_What flowers to-day may flower to-morrow,_

_But never as good as new._

_Suppose I wound my arm right round _

_"'Tis true, young man, 'tis true."_

Almost from the moment that her bow had touched string, Sherlock had been transfixed, frozen. He stared at her with his grey eyes dancing—yes, John had just described Sherlock's eyes in his mind as _dancing_—and his hand balled into a fist on the table.

_Some lads there are, 'tis shame to say,_

_That only court to thieve,_

_And once they bear the bloom away_

_'Tis little enough they leave._

_Then keep your heart for men like me_

_And safe from trustless chaps._

_My love is true and all for you._

_"Perhaps, young man, perhaps."_

John stared at Sherlock. Sherlock was—it couldn't be—Sherlock was attracted to Irene Adler. Gaping-mouth, sparkling-eye, quivering-hand, racing-heart _attracted._

And Irene Adler seemed to be attracted to him. Catching his gaze, she made eye contact with the detective through the entire last verse of her song, smiling through the lyrics:

_Oh, look in my eyes, then, can you doubt?_

_Why, 'tis a mile from town._

_How green the grass is all about!_

_We might as well sit down._

_Ah, life, what is it but a flower?_

_Why must true lovers sigh?_

_Be kind, have pity, my own, my pretty, _

_"Good-bye, young man, good-bye."_

As the last note died away, applause and cheers rang out. Some men whistled, and someone nearby—someone John very badly wanted to hit-commented "She can Vaughan my Willy any time!" Sherlock, though, remained frozen in place, eyeing Irene with an unwavering stare. John glared at the bitch—the suspect, he corrected himself—and rested a hand on Sherlock's wrist.

"Hey, Sherlock, mate, keep your mind on the case, all right?"

Sherlock's eyes finally parted from Irene as he shot a look down to his wrist and up to John. For the tiniest fraction of a second, John saw something like uncertainty pass over the detective's face, but then it was gone. Sherlock stood and adjusted his jacket.

"That's what I'm doing, John." He rounded the table and made a beeline to the side of the stage, where Irene was packing up her violin.

Sarah tugged at John's elbow. "Well, this is turning into a fun night. Shall we order some food with our drinks?" She placed a menu in front of him as the next open mic act began to play.

"Hmm? Oh, yeah, sure," John said. He lifted the menu to his face but could not stop himself from keeping one eye on Sherlock. Sarah continued.

"Do you think the curry chicken is any good here?"

Sherlock took Irene by the elbow. A hand up to his chest, then outward toward her, smiling—introductions. _Wonder what name he's using._

"Probably not, right? I mean, this place doesn't strike me as having really good Indian."

Sherlock was grinning, gesturing toward her violin. Irene nodded and smiled back, brushing a hand against Sherlock's arm. John could almost hear the conversation in his mind—_Oh, you play too?—_and his hand reflexively tightened on his menu. _Good lord he's making time with her._

"Guess we should stick with the standards."

Sherlock was leaning in, whispering something. Irene giggled, tipped her head up towards him. Their faces were inches apart. _No, no way, he's not going to—he just met her—he can't be—_

"Chips are always safe, don't you think?"

Sherlock Holmes leaned down and kissed Irene Adler.

John shot out of his seat to military attention. Sarah gasped, said something like "John, do you really feel that strongly about the chips?" but John wasn't listening because bloody _Sherlock_ had his bloody _lips_ on the bloody_ suspect_ and what did that bloody _git_ think he was doing getting _off_ at a time like this right in front of _John _and for some reason that _mattered_ and _why_ was Sarah _pulling_ at him right now?

"John, would you sit down?"

John looked from Sarah—eyeing him with a gleam that John recognized as danger—to Sherlock—separating from Irene with a mischievous grin and pulling a pen from his coat pocket _blimey he's going to get her number—_and back again. Sarah followed his line of sight and when she met his eyes again, there was nothing left in her look but the danger.

"John," she said, "if you don't sit back down with me right now..." She left the threat implied but very clear.

Sherlock brushed his fingers over Irene's cheek and turned away. He caught John's eye and gestured toward the exit, then made his way in that direction. John stared for a moment, then turned back to Sarah.

She read everything in his face. "John, this is ridiculous. You're not going to leave me here in some club in Soho to run after Sherlock Holmes?"

John Watson did exactly that.


	10. Chapter 9: Gotcha

_All I have to say about this chapter is: Evil cliffhanger is evil. :-)_

**Chapter 9 – Gotcha**

John pushed his way out of the club into the cold night air. Sherlock was standing small distance away, in the mouth of an alley, pulling out his mobile.

"What in God's name was that, Sherlock?" John said, advancing on him.

"Hmm?"

"You were just snogging our suspect! What on Earth do you think you're doing?"

Sherlock was gleaming. "Did you enjoy watching the act, John?" He began texting.

"I swear, Sherlock, you are absolutely mad as a—the act?" John blinked. "The act?"

"Naturally. I told you I could get her to give me the information that William's goons hadn't been able to pry from her. It's just a matter of applying the appropriate tactics."

The night was cold, and the murmur and clang of the DJ Diogenes Club was loud behind him, but John suddenly went very warm and silent . "So, all that staring, the flirting, the snogging, it was all just to—"

"Get her attention, and ultimately her number, of course." Sherlock looked up from his mobile screen as it lit his cheeks in the dim light. "Think about it, John. That idiot Ormstein is a computer genius and he didn't see the most obvious thing in front of his face. She has no computer, the CD-ROM is nowhere to be found, even stealing her purse doesn't get them any closer. So where, then, is Irene Adler storing this remarkable computer code? What could she possibly be using to save it until she's ready to send it to the world?"

John felt the answer fall over him like a blanket of snow. "Her mobile."

"Exactly. Encrypted, likely, to keep it from sneaking off the mobile and onto the network until she was ready. The purse-snatching was a good idea, really, but when William told us that had failed, I deduced that she must wear her mobile in her pocket, so it's always be close at hand. Wouldn't you, if it was your only computerized device and you were living alone in a foreign city?"

John was half listening, half sagging under the weight of his slowly-growing sense of stupidity. "It was all an act. All for her mobile number."

"Based on what the construction workers told me, I figured she was used to this kind of attention from capricious males, so I knew it wouldn't be difficult. Lestrade knew that my goal tonight was to send him Adler's mobile number. Once he has that—"

"—he can order the mobile network to wipe it remotely."

Sherlock clapped his hands together. "And since I just texted him the number moments ago, Miss Irene Adler is certainly in for a shock the next time she checks her messages." He smiled. "Was it too on-the-nose, do you think, to make her screen freeze on the words, 'Gotcha, Sherlock Holmes'?"

He spun in place. "Oh, I am so good!" He pumped his fists, then turned down the alley. "Now come on, let's get back to Baker Street. I need a good cuppa to wash the taste of her out of—" He stopped and stared, for John was rooted in place and expressionless. "John?"

John's thoughts were a grey, swirling mess, but out of the morass of _Sarah _and _boy band_ and _mic night_ and _snogging_ and _mobile_ and _cuppa_, all that John could really get out was, "You kissed her." This, it seemed, was the crux of the whole night, and John couldn't even bring himself to put words to _why._

Sherlock tilted his head. "I've upset you?"

John answered, the answer surprising even himself. "Yes."

"Because I misled you? As to my purpose here?"

"No, no, it's not that—"

Sherlock dropped his voice to a whisper and took John by the elbow. "Because I was manipulative?"

John was surprised to hear a note of genuine confusion in Sherlock's voice, and found that he suddenly could not look his flatmate in the face. "…no."

"Then why—" he began, then stopped, his expression very close to his _by-God-I've-worked-it-out_ expression. "You didn't realize it was an act. You thought I really was attracted to her."

John said nothing. That said everything.

Sherlock blinked. "And that bothers you. Quite a lot."

Sherlock and John stood in the alley across from each other, Sherlock's hand still on John's arm, and each waited for the other to say something.

"Sherlock Holmes," a female voice rang out. Sherlock and John turned. In the mouth of the alley stood Irene Adler, one hand on her hip, the other clutching her mobile. "You son of a bitch."

Sherlock dropped his hand from John and snapped back into detective mode. "Irene, darling, is that any way to talk to your latest snog?"

"You son of a bitch!" she shouted again, hurling her phone at Sherlock. He stepped aside, and John heard the distinctive _ka-clink_ of shattering plastic as it clattered to the alley floor. "You have no idea what you've done."

"I think," Sherlock said, voice like molasses, "I think I stopped you from selling an extremely potent computer virus to the highest bidder." He laughed lightly. "I deduced you would try to get a better price than whatever William was offering you. That's what you meant in the note, _still seeking your millions_?"

"Shut up, you jackass," Irene shot back, all the loveliness and beauty gone from her features, replaced with hatred and a certain undefinable darkness that John had come to learn spoke of more than a passing familiarity with crime. "You really have no idea who you've crossed, do you?"

A flutter of something crossed Sherlock's face. "You don't mean yourself. You mean your bidder."

"My bidder," she sneered. "He told me all about you. Told me to watch out for you. I should have been more careful, but by the way he described you, I didn't think Sherlock Holmes would be interested in a make-out session with someone like me." Her eyes flitted to John and John went cold. _Moriarty._

Sherlock went ramrod stiff, but John could tell he was fighting to keep his voice level. "I've already contacted the authorities, they're surely on their way. You're welcome to continue to stand here and taunt me if you like until they arrive, or we could go on a merry chase around Soho. I'm both stronger and faster than you, mind, so really, it'd just be for the sake of your daily aerobics."

"I have a better idea," Adler sneered, and suddenly there was a gun in her hands. John leapt out in front of Sherlock, who placed both hands on John's shoulders.

"Hidden in the violin case," Sherlock whispered, answering the question John hadn't even had time to ask. "I should have known, I'm such an _idiot_—"

"You took away my chance at millions," she said. "It had taken me years to find the right bidder for that ridiculous code, and you wiped it away in seconds." Her aim moved back and forth from Sherlock to John. "Lucky he told me so much about you," she growled, "lucky I know the one thing I need to know to get away." She stopped wavering, trained her gun directly on John. "_Goodbye, young man, goodbye_."

"Sherlock—" John choked.

"Irene—" Sherlock began.

Irene Adler fired.


	11. Chapter 10: Everything

**Chapter 10 – Everything**

John dropped, the all-too-familiar sensation of bullet-weapon-fireblazinghurtingexquisite _pain_ rippling through him. He crashed to the ground on his back.

In an instant, Sherlock was on top of him. "No," John croaked, "no, Sherlock, go, go get her, go…"

But Sherlock wasn't hearing. "John? John, where did she hit you? John, John, are you all right?"

"I-I think so, Sherlock, it's just a graze, my leg, it's…" John tried to stammer out, but the words caught in his throat, held there by the sheer force of Sherlock's palpable fear.

Sherlock wasn't listening anyway. The detective's grey eyes scanned every inch of John, hunting for the wound. He found it, blood soaking through the upper part of John's jeans. Sherlock found the rip in the fabric, seized it, and violently wrenched it open wider.

"Sherlock! What are you doing, I told you I think it's…"

But Sherlock's eyes had already taken in the wound, the blood, the leg, the depth of the injury, and the likely anatomical damage. "You're right…you're right…it's only a graze…" Sherlock heaved in a great breath, then fell into a sitting position on the sidewalk. "You'll be OK." He lifted his hands to his face and went very still.

John pulled himself up into a half-sitting position. He could hear the sirens down the street—medical help was coming, Lestrade responding to Sherlock's text. With effort, he shrugged off his jacket, pulled his jumper over his head and pressed it to his leg. "Sherlock," he managed to get out, "can you help me tie this?"

"What? Oh, yes, John, yes…" Sherlock reached over—with trembling hands, John noted—and manipulated John's jumper, tying the sleeves around and around to create compression.

"Thanks," John said, shivering a bit in nothing but his T-shirt and torn trousers. "You know," he said with something of a smile, "this is turning into a typical night out with you...embarassed, dumped, nearly _murdered_…"

Sherlock let out a mournful sound. In anyone else, John would have labeled it a sob, but Sherlock Holmes didn't cry. Sherlock Holmes wasn't capable of crying. Sherlock Holmes…

…was on all fours in an alleyway, whimpering like a small child.

John froze for a moment. "Sherlock?" he whispered. "Sherlock, what's wrong?"

Sherlock didn't even look at him—couldn't even look at him—when he replied. "Everything. Everything, oh God, John, if she'd killed you…"

John's heart jumped in his chest. Part of him—the part that had launched him out of his chair earlier, the part he'd been trying to get to _shut up_ all night—thought it was worth this and many gunshot wounds to witness Sherlock's real emotions. Not to mention, John had often thought that someday, someday he'd see a crack in that porcelain façade and then, then he'd laugh.

But in the dim light of the alley, watching real tears streak down Sherlock's despairing face, it wasn't funny _at all_. "Listen, mate, I told you, I'm going to be fine. And we'll catch up with Adler bint, I promise you." John attempted to sit up and place a hand on Sherlock's shoulder, but could only manage a quick brush against his knees. "Now come on, pull it together. What if Anderson or Donovan is in those police cars, huh? You want them to see you like this?"

For the first time, Sherlock seemed to hear the sirens, growing much louder now. He glanced at John, and John's breath fled from his lungs. Never had he seen Sherlock look this way. None of the usual defenses, the cockiness, the brilliance, none of it was there. John looked into Sherlock's red-rimmed eyes and dust-smeared face and saw something he had never, ever expected to see.

Love.

Before John could even process this information, the alleyway began to glow with the red flashes of police lights. The authorities were nearly there. Sherlock looked up, saw the lights, looked down at John for one long moment, and kissed him.

It was the briefest of touches, really, almost chaste, but John, through his shock, felt the deep, abiding need at the bottom of it. Sherlock's lips were wet with tears, salty and slightly cold and trembling.

It was over in an instant, over almost before it began, Sherlock tearing himself away, brushing a hand quickly through John's hair, whispering, once, "John…" and racing down the alleyway away from the lights.

John sat and stared. The entire world, the whole of planet Earth had just shrunk down to the size of a centimeter-square piece of his lower lip. Where Sherlock had—where he had—where he and Sherlock had actually—

Footsteps rounded the corner behind him, and a sharp voice brought him somewhat back to reality. "Don't tell me he took off and left you like this," Donovan snapped, as she, Anderson, and several paramedics surrounded him. The paramedics immediately began tending to his leg, but John barely knew they were there.

"Let me guess," Anderson scoffed. "Criminal ran off, so off goes our dear friend Sherlock, leaving his flatmate in the alley to bleed for a while?" He shook his head. "Yeah, sure, he's not a psychopath, right."

John wanted to protest, very badly did he want to protest, but found he couldn't come up with the words to explain—in fact, it seemed for the moment that he couldn't come up with words at all. He just sat, gaping, staring at the empty space in the alleyway that had previously held Sherlock Holmes.

The paramedics stood and murmured to Donovan. She nodded. "All right, let's get you patched up at Bart's. The medics say you'll be fine, no thanks to the Freak." She patted him on the shoulder, which John realized she meant—she actually meant—to be comforting. "Some friend."

As the medics gently began helping him onto a stretcher, John blankly, absently, whispered, "Some friend."

* * *

_Aww! I couldn't keep you guys waiting for a resolution to the cliffhanger for too long! It was too evil._

_I now present, without further commercial interruption, the rest of The Virus from the Valley. Three chapters to go!_


	12. Chapter 11: John John John

**Chapter 11 – John John John**

It was over three kilometers from the DJ Diogenes Club to 221B Baker Street. Sherlock sprinted the entire way. He wrenched the outer door open, flew up the stairs, shoved open the living room door with his shoulder, and stood, gasping, in between the sofa and John's favorite chair.

Adler forgotten, the case forgotten, even Moriarty, for the moment, forgotten, with eyes as wide as the sockets in the skull, Sherlock took in the whole of 221B. John's laptop, sitting on the desk, power light blinking slowly as it slept. A half-finished mug of tea sitting on the end table. A black button-down shirt, tried on and rejected hours ago in John's attempt to ready himself for their evening at the club. John's cane, unused for weeks but kept in the corner, a quiet memorial. John's favorite white jumper, tossed over the back of the couch.

John. John.

_Oh God. _

_I've ruined everything._

Sherlock fell into the couch, shaking. The white jumper slid off the top of the sofa and Sherlock took it into his lap. The tears had left him—he seemed unable to produce them now, he seemed almost beyond the emotion that created them and into entirely new uncharted feelings—but his eyes remained huge, darting, unable to rest on any one thing.

A moment later Sherlock realized what he was doing. He was storing, saving, and backing up, downloading as much data from the flat as he could, every minute detail having to do with John (John John John, the name repeated in his mind like the peal of a bell). Sherlock needed to absorb John, the Johnness of the flat, the furniture, the walls, everything, couldn't be satiated, couldn't get enough of John (John John JOHN), couldn't get his fill and would never get his fill because—

Because he had ruined everything.

All this time, he thought it would be Moriarty. Moriarty, of course, who would be the one to take John from him, someday. He had threatened as much. But no. No, it was Sherlock, Sherlock who dragged John along on cases not thinking of the consequences, Sherlock who had dropped his guard when he thought the case cracked, Sherlock who had underestimated their opponent, failed to extricate John from the situation, failed…failed to _bloody control himself_ when the feelings had taken hold of him.

John was shot, John was bleeding (John John John JOHN). Simply seeing John as Moriarty's hostage had turned Sherlock's insides to ice. Seeing him an explosive vest had sent him into dangerous frenetic panic. Seeing John in the hospital after the pool explosion had driven Sherlock to madness, driven him to _Mycroft_. But to actually see him _shot_—Sherlock's breath caught somewhere between a gasp and a moan.

John had been shot and Sherlock had run away.

And in between those two horrible, awful, inconceivable events was a third event—not awful, not horrible, but just as inconceivable and just as responsible for the ruination of everything Sherlock could see and feel around him.

Sherlock had kissed John.

Sherlock dropped his head into his hands. This was what happened when you couldn't control your feelings, _this_. There was no going back from this. Everything else that had happened—the botched case, the escaped suspect, the leg wound, even his running away-Sherlock knew John would, in time, have forgiven.

But the line had been drawn and Sherlock, being Sherlock, had crossed it, stamped it out, erased it, completely disregarded that it had even existed and committed the one act he knew, he knew John would never be able to forgive.

221B as he knew it was over.

"John…" escaped Sherlock's lips. He lifted John's jumper to his face and just breathed—breathed the scent of tea and curry and aftershave and newsprint and iodine and John.

"John, John, John, John…" Sherlock rocked back and forth, hardly aware that he was now reciting his inner John pulse aloud. "Oh, John…John…"

XXX

John lay atop the covers on the emergency room stretcher, trying not to wince as the intern _(God if they get any younger they'll be reading the Hippocratic Oath to First Formers soon) _passed the needle through his skin and continued stitching his leg.

Next to him, Lestrade was flipping through his notebook, reviewing the notes he had taken during his questioning of John. "And Sherlock never said he knew anything about where she might run to? Where Moriarty might be hiding?"

John shook his head. "No. I don't think he expected that part, actually. You could ask him yourself, though," John offered, allowing just a hint of annoyance to creep into his voice.

Lestrade glared at him over his notebook. "I'm asking you because you're the one who's here. Your flatmate fled the scene of a crime. I've half a mind to throw him in the lockup for a night just to watch him pace." He paused, his eyes falling on John's wound. He looked puzzled. "Why did he run off, anyway?"

John's voice caught in his throat. _Well, Inspector, he ran off because he didn't want you catching us snogging in a back alley._ John felt his cheeks start to burn. He stuttered out "I—well, I don't really—he wasn't—he didn't mean—"

Lestrade looked him over again, but with a softer light in his eyes. "Listen, Doctor, if you tell me he wasn't up to anything illegal or dangerous—"

"No, he wasn't, not in the—"

"—then I believe you. Reliable witness, and all." He smiled, and John relaxed. "I'm more just—confused."

John let out a sarcastic laugh. "Oh yes, Sherlock does do that to people. Confused, yes, that's the word exactly."

"I just mean," Lestrade began, scratching his temple with the eraser of his pencil. "I just mean that I didn't think he'd run off and leave you." Catching John's raised eyebrow, he rolled his eyes and continued. "Oh yes, yes, I know, _high-functioning sociopath_, but I'm not talking about Sherlock running off and leaving, you know, _Anderson_ to bleed on the pavement. I'm talking about him leaving _you."_

John jumped, and the intern apologized for pricking him. He hadn't.

"I've known Sherlock a while, and I've never seen him the way he is around you. Just when I thought Sherlock really didn't care about anything or anyone, here you are."

"Detective Inspector—"

"No, no, I don't mean it like that. I just—" Lestrade paused. "Despite the grief he unendingly brings to me and my staff, and despite my better judgment, I care about the bloke, I really do." He met John's eyes. "And God knows I need him, whatever else he does. You'll make sure he got home all right?"

John nodded.

"And, you'll send him down to the station tomorrow morning, to give a statement?"

John sighed and gave Lestrade a look, but nodded.

"Then I think that's all I need from you, Doctor. We'll start the search for Irene Adler, let you know what we turn up."

_Which will be a whole lot of nothing,_ Sherlock's voice in John's mind piped up, but John managed to throw a "Thank you" toward Lestrade's retreating back, and watched the intern place the last of his stitches in his thigh.

He leaned back and thought about Lestrade's words. _Just when I thought Sherlock really didn't care about anything or anyone, here you are._ The events of the evening played before his eyes, on repeat. The ridiculous club. Adler's performance. The bit with Sarah, how he was certain he'd bungled it for good, now, and how little he seemed to care, and in contrast, how much he seemed to care about Sherlock's flirting.

The alley. The gun. The shot.

The kiss.

"There you go, Dr. Watson, you're all set," the intern piped up, interrupting his thoughts. "Try to keep off the leg for a few days, and see your doctor in—"

"—seven days to have them out, yes, I know, thank you." John shuffled off the stretcher and reached for his jumper and what was left of his jeans. "I really have to be going."

John really couldn't stay in the hospital for another minute. He needed to see a tall man about a kiss in an alleyway.


	13. Chapter 12: Keep Calm and Carry On

**Chapter 12 – Keep Calm and Carry On**

John slowly ascended the seventeen steps, wincing a little and stepping gingerly so as not to tear his stitches. He glanced up at the living room door and could make out light underneath it—Sherlock was definitely home, and awake. It was a bit of relief—at least his flatmate wasn't sitting around a darkened alley at two in the morning, crying—but, given what John knew needed to come next, not much of one.

He had been so certain, when he left Bart's, of what he wanted to say, but somehow, in the cab on the way to Baker Street, he had lost it. Trying to put everything into words proved too much for him, and while he tried to plan a simple, logical speech, he suddenly wasn't sure himself what he wanted to say. The plan was to say something like this:

_Listen, Sherlock, it's clear that you have some feelings for me that you haven't been able to express. I'm really not sure how I feel about that, but if you give me time and some space, I think I can work it out. For now, I don't want this to become a major disruption in our lives. That way we can both be in top form to work and take cases. I know that what matters to you is the work, so for now, let's just keep things the same._

Easy, straightforward, messing with the status quo as little as possible. The whole speech had a distinct Keep-Calm-And-Carry-On ring to it, and John reminded himself of that as he finished the staircase. Keep calm and carry on. This would work out fine. (_Really?_ said a voice in the back of his mind) He would say everything that needed to be said. (_Really?)_ And it's what was best for both of them. (_Really?)_ Well, at least it was best for John _(…really?)_ And if he didn't quite feel right about some of the language in the speech, well, it's not like he was hurting anyone.

_(Really?)_

John sighed. Standing in the hallway wasn't getting him any closer to a resolution. _Come on, Watson, you've got a medical education, military training, you've had a bullet in your shoulder, a head in your fridge and a Semtex vest tied to your waist. You should be able to handle a _conversation_. _

John pushed open the living room door.

Sherlock was standing facing the window. John's white jumper was puddled on the floor next to his feet, and John noticed with some confusion that his suitcase was propped open on the easy chair. Sherlock hadn't moved upon John's entrance. John stood in place for a while, trying out a few opening sentences in his mind.

"Hey," was all he could manage.

Sherlock's shoulders rose and fell slowly—he was taking deep breaths. "You didn't limp much up the stairs," the detective said, still facing the window. "They must have done well at Bart's."

"Um, yeah, yeah, I'm OK. Seems like Reeny wasn't much of a shot," John attempted, not sure how one could launch from a discussion of his stitches into the grand planned speech. "Sherlock, can we—"

Sherlock turned to look at John and the grand speech blinked out of his mind with a faint _pop_.

Sherlock looked—the only word for it was exhausted. His eyes were red-rimmed, his face drawn and heavy. He looked like death, he looked liked pain, he looked like John had never seen him look and all John wanted to do was take him in his arms and—

No. John was not going down that road. _(Really?)_ This was no time for hysterics.

"Come on, Sherlock, sit down on the sofa with me, we'll just have a talk—" John moved to take his friend by the arm, but Sherlock jerked away with startling speed.

"Don't touch me," Sherlock hissed, then, seeing John's shocked reaction, added "…please."

Sherlock folded his arms together closely, hugging himself. John shook his head. "Sherlock, I know this is all buggered twelve ways from Sunday, really I do, but we need to talk about what's going on here."

Sherlock sniffed and looked away, toward the fireplace. "You're going to leave."

"Um…sorry?"

"That's what's going on. I've ruined everything, and you're going to leave."

John exhaled, any eloquence he had been planning to use in this conversation well and truly lost. "You've deduced that, have you?"

Sherlock closed his eyes. "We are flatmates. We share a kitchen, a toilet and a living area. Your bedroom is just above mine. These living conditions are certainly…intimate."

John creased his forehead. "Sherlock, please, I just want to have a normal conversation about—"

"It is understandable that a heterosexual man such as yourself would not want to remain in…intimate living conditions with another man, one who has—" Sherlock's voice caught—"one who has made his meaning as plain to you as I have. The only question remaining is when you will leave. I have—I have taken the liberty of removing your suitcases from the airing cupboard."

John leaned down into the sofa. "You're that certain I'm leaving?"

Sherlock sniffed and tried to speak solidly. "I don't often make mistakes, John. When I do make them…believe me, I review them quite thoroughly in my mind, trying to figure out the consequences." Sherlock ran a finger over the mantelpiece as he spoke, still unable to turn and look at John. "I've made a mistake tonight, and these are the consequences. I will accept them as best I can. But I do want you to know, John…" he turned and met John's eyes, and the sadness in them ripped John's spirit in two. "I am sorry. And I will miss you."

John held Sherlock's gaze for a long moment, a moment in which his logical brain packed a valise, put on a hat, and caught the next train out of Waterloo.

A moment in which that worry pang, the one he'd been feeling for weeks now, the one that had grasped his heart all the time when he thought about Sherlock, the one that had leapt into his throat when Sherlock's lips had brushed his, settled into his chest, uncurled, and revealed itself by its proper name.

A moment in which John let himself think the thought he hadn't been letting himself think, thought it, and thought himself rather daft to think he could have ever not thought it.

When John finally spoke, he hardly recognized his own voice.

"Well, Sherlock bloody Holmes, you're right."

Sherlock's features dashed apart at the words. He blinked rapidly as John continued.

"You're right, you have made a mistake. A big one." John rose from the couch and slowly moved toward Sherlock who, for his part, seemed rooted in place. "You've been my flatmate for months now, observed every miniscule detail of me and deduced everything that has ever happened to me and probably a few things that haven't yet, and you don't know me at all."

Sherlock attempted a response. "John, please, I am sorry, there's really no need—"

"I just don't see, Sherlock, how you could have read me all wrong." They were inches apart now, fear in the taller man's eyes, resolve in the smaller. "If you think for one bloody second that I'm leaving you, that I would ever, ever leave you, you're a bigger idiot than I ever figured you for."

And with that, John smashed Sherlock into the mantelpiece with a fiery kiss. The skull and the jackknife crashed to the floor, pieces of mail fluttering behind.

A moment passed, Sherlock holding himself up against the wall with both hands while John pressed his entire length into him, reaching his arms up to pull Sherlock deeper into the kiss that seemed to go on for ever, ever, swallowing both of them, nothing existed but these two men and this flat and this this THIS is what John had been wanting, _wanting_….

John realized that Sherlock was squirming in his grasp. He jolted himself out of the kiss but didn't move, just met Sherlock's eyes.

He almost laughed when he saw Sherlock's face. Written in every feature was complete, abject confusion.

Sherlock's eyes were wider than he had ever seen. He fumbled for his words. "I—I—I don't understand."

John nodded. "Right. Me neither. So let's not try, OK?" He reached for Sherlock again, and this time Sherlock responded, wrapping his long arms around John's waist and pulling him in to him, tightly, warmly. Sherlock pushed away from the wall and several pictures crashed to the floor, startling them both. Sherlock and John's eyes met.

"Sofa?"

"Sofa."

In another moment they were on said sofa, Sherlock atop John, snogging like teenagers. John realized through his haze that yes, he was kissing a guy, kissing his flatmate, kissing Sherlock Holmes and this wasn't what army veterans did and this wasn't what straight guys did and this should probably start feeling wrong any time now…

Except it really, really didn't. In fact, it felt like the culmination of every feeling that had run through John's veins in the weeks since the pool—probably longer, if he was being honest. But now was not the time for thinking, not when Sherlock was so near, now kissing his forehead, now his cheek, now his neck, whispering all the while _My John My John My John_, grasping his shoulders, his waist, his—

"Ow!"

Sherlock flew off of John, wincing as John winced. "Sorry. Leg?"

"Yeah, mate, leg. Got shot, remember?"

"I was aware."

Their eyes met, and in the next moment both men were laughing. Sherlock fell back atop John—keeping clear of his sore leg—and rested his head on John's shoulder, breathing into his neck. John, still giggling, brought both hands up to Sherlock's waist and sighed.

"So much for Keep Calm and Carry On."

"What?"

"Nothing. Oh, Sherlock, what on Earth are we doing?"

"I tell you, John, with all of my usual certainty, that I have absolutely no idea."

Giggles again. "I've stumped the world's only consulting detective. I must be good."

"Please, John, I implore you to speak precisely. You're not merely good," Sherlock smiled, a twinkle winking out of his tired grey eyes, "you are extraordinary. Really…quite…extraordinary," Sherlock's speech slowed as he relaxed into John's arms. John realized that under the smile, Sherlock was trembling slightly, and rubbed his back gently in an attempt to calm him. Sherlock crying. Sherlock laughing. Sherlock shaking. John marveled to himself. They were going to have to have a conversation about what 'sociopath' really meant.

Sherlock spoke again. "I mean it, you know. I don't understand this, any of it."

"Me neither, but that's OK. I'm fine if you're fine."

Sherlock sighed deeply, and it came out as a shudder. "I am now."

John squeezed Sherlock, glancing over his head and noticing his suitcase on the chair. "You really thought I would leave you?" he asked, incredulous. "That John Watson would just up and leave Sherlock Holmes?"

"Nothing else was logical."

John rested his head atop Sherlock's. "Well, allow me to be the first to tell you, my friend, love isn't logical."

Sherlock raised his head to look at John. His expression was difficult to read. "Love?"

John paused. Sherlock's grey eyes searched his face, waiting for an answer. John thought back to the first time he'd seen those eyes, the first time he'd seen them glow with the fire of cracking a case, the hard steel he'd seen in them when confronting criminals, the soft affection that danced within them when John handed Sherlock his morning tea…

John blinked slowly, smiled, and surrendered. "Yes, love, you git. Now lay back down, I'm comfy."

Sherlock gave John a deep squeeze and rested once again on his shoulder. John closed his eyes.

XXX

Some time later, moments, hours, John couldn't be sure, he became aware of a dampness soaking through his shirtsleeve. Sherlock was still in the crook of his arm, only now he was crying softly, clearly trying not to disturb John.

"Hey, mate, what's wrong?" John whispered, placing a hand on Sherlock's hair. "I swear, if you cry every time we kiss, it's going to get a bit old."

The attempt at humor didn't change anything; Sherlock continued to whimper. John kissed the top of Sherlock's head and tried again. "Listen, whatever it is, it's OK, I'm right here."

"He'll burn you," Sherlock whispered through clenched teeth. "They'll all try to burn you, John. I know it." He grabbed John and turned him over in a fierce hug that crushed the breath out of the smaller man. "And this is only going to make it worse."

"Sherlock." It was a statement, not a question. Sherlock separated from John far enough to look him in the eye. "Sherlock, I'm going to tell you something and I want you to listen carefully, because I'm only going to say this once."

Sherlock didn't say something obnoxious like _I always listen carefully_. John took that as a good sign.

"Sherlock, I don't care. Let them come for me. Let them do what they want. Let them burn all of London to cinders. I'm not going anywhere. Do you hear me? Whatever happens, we will face it together and we will win. Just you and me."

Sherlock looked away. "Just you and me." There was something in Sherlock's eyes, his voice, that John couldn't entirely place. He wanted so badly to comfort Sherlock—and he knew that, even more so than a declaration of love, there was something Sherlock needed to hear.

"That's all I need, Sherlock, you and me, because I trust you, and that's all that matters. Do you trust me?"

There was a long pause. _Trust issues_, John thought to himself. _The story of 221B, trust issues._

Sherlock responded by tucking his head under John's chin. He held his breath for a long moment, then replied, softly.

"I trust you, John."

And while Adler and Moriarty and Mycroft and Lestrade and Ormstein all still needed to be resolved, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson fell asleep, interlocked, on the sofa.


	14. Chapter 13: In the Morning

**Chapter 13 – In the Morning**

The problem with late-night declarations of love made after a near-death experience and immediately followed by cuddly, post-snogging sleep is that eventually you wake up. And whether it's the effect of a well-earned rest or some undetectable wavelength unique to morning light, there's always the moment when you realize what occurred on the previous evening—the ridiculous, amazing, unbelievable, could-that-really-have-happened-how-I-remember evening—and you begin to wonder if it all really was as it seemed.

So when John woke up on the sofa with a sore leg and the taste of Sherlock on his lips and the wave of _Oh Yeah_ flooded over him, it didn't help that he was waking up alone.

John opened his eyes. His arm was still outstretched in the position it had been all night, cradling Sherlock (_cradling Sherlock_, his brain repeated in insistent echo), and his knees were pulled up, John knew, to accommodate the other man's longer legs, but Sherlock was nowhere to be found.

John sat up, fighting the panic that was threatening to break over him, like dark storm clouds reddening an otherwise peaceful dawn sky. Tentatively, he called out, "Sherlock?"

No answer.

Feeling woozy, John stood, the wrinkles of last-night's clothes rubbing his skin and his sore leg, and stumbled into the kitchen. As he reached for the kettle (_just make some tea, make some tea, it'll all make more sense over some tea_), a handwritten note resting against the kettle caught his eye.

_John_, it said, in Sherlock's tight, angular handwriting.

John Watson fancied himself a steady sort of chap, but it took him a good five minutes of standing against the counter, propping himself up with his hands, head bent and knees threatening to give way, before he could summon up the courage to open the note. _He wouldn't—he couldn't—not even Sherlock—we'd been so—there's no way—_

Luckily, John was, at heart, a steady sort of chap, so he did manage to get ahold of himself and read the note.

**John—**

**My sincerest apologies. I understand, from my studies, that it is not considered affectionate or polite to slip out after an evening such as our previous one. However, I have a few pressing matters to attend to related to the Adler case, and I prefer to handle them early and reserve the rest of the day for handling all matters related to you.**

**Or at least, whatever matters you permit me to handle. Such as it were. Double entendres, John, I believe fall into the category of Good. **

**Will pick up lunch on my return. Probably takeaway from Angelo's. Text if you prefer something else.**

**YSH**

John could actually feel his lungs begin to work again as he finished reading the note. All would be all right. Granted, Sherlock wasn't exactly being a great boyfriend (_Boyfriend? That didn't sound right. Partner? Better, but not great_…) by slipping away, but John knew he'd probably be teaching Sherlock many things about being in a relationship, and this was a relatively minor transgression, especially if Sherlock was going to leave him handwritten notes—not a text, not an email, John noted with some satisfaction.

And what was that signature? YSH? SH he knew, but Y…

The penny dropped and John grinned like a fool. _Your Sherlock Holmes._

Now feeling woozy for entirely different reasons, John began once again to prepare his morning tea, thinking all the while about some of the things he would need to teach Sherlock about relationships, including some things that were virgin territory for both of them (John found himself blushing at the word) but that he found himself more than a little eager to explore.

XXX

By the time John's tea kettle began to steam pleasantly, Sherlock, ever quick and efficient, had already completed three of his four morning tasks.

First, he had called upon William Ormstein at his hotel. The American had just been tucking into his hotel's version of a Full English Breakfast (which Sherlock noted, with some disdain, didn't even include baked beans) when the detective had swooped in on him, explained the erasure of the virus from Adler's mobile, assured him of the absolute certainty of the virus' destruction and the safety of his company and reputation, stole a piece of toast, and waited expectantly for the other half of his payment.

Second, he had double-timed it to the currency exchange in Paddington station, changing Ormstein's dollars into pounds. Whether Ormstein had been completely thrilled with the result of the case (and with Adler still at large, he almost certainly wasn't) was immaterial with his bank notes in hand.

Third, he had called Lestrade and given his statement about the prior evening's events, which really meant he berated the DI and his team for not catching Adler, for not arriving on the scene quickly enough, for not bringing enough backup, and especially for not taking better care of John. Sherlock hung up on the DI's words of protest—this was not the conversation that concerned him.

So finally, he found himself in a second rate coffee shop, a cup of tea steeping well beyond the point of potability in front of him untouched, as he awaited the individual that did concern him. And with the _tap, tap_ of a full-sized umbrella hitting the floor tiles at the front of the shop, Sherlock knew that individual had arrived.

"Mycroft," he said by way of greeting as his brother sat down across from him.

"Good morning, Sherlock. I was most intrigued by the urgent nature of your text. What can I do for you?" Mycroft waved a finger at the waitress, ordered himself an Earl Grey, and looked across the table at Sherlock.

Sherlock was glaring at him.

"Call it off, Mycroft."

Mycroft blinked. "I beg your pardon?"

"Call it off. I don't want it anymore, I'm done. Call it off."

Mycroft let out a long breath. "I'm afraid it's not that simple, Sherlock."

Sherlock banged a fist down on the table, rattling his teacup and shocking a few nearby patrons into momentary silence. "I know bloody well that so much as a cough from you can start wars in foreign countries most people can't even spell. You're telling me you can't call off surveillance on one man?"

"Sherlock, if you'd listen to me…"

"Bloody useless in any case. Where were your men last night when the man you swore to protect was being held at gunpoint?"

"Sherlock…"

"What's the point of even having a Secret Service if they're that inept? I take it back, Mycroft, I don't owe you any favors after the shoddy job you've—"

"Sherlock!" Mycroft did not so much shout as reverberate Sherlock's name across the coffee shop. The younger man, finally, held up his tirade.

Mycroft inhaled. "That's what I'm trying to tell you, Sherlock. My men couldn't be there in the alley last night because they _were_ protecting John. Protecting you _and _John, actually. From the dozen or so assailants that began moving toward your position when Irene Adler's phone blinked out."

It was Sherlock's turn to inhale. "Assailants?"

Mycroft nodded. "That's also how Adler was able to get away. Some sort of drop-dead, failsafe plan. We were barely able to stay ahead of them, Sherlock, they're good."

Sherlock stared down into his ever-darkening tea. "I don't understand. We've been watching so closely, looking for any signs…"

Mycroft grimaced as the waitress placed his tea in front of him. "He's exceptional, Sherlock. He may even be better than you. And we both know you're not at your best right now. "

Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut. As much as he didn't want to hear what Mycroft was saying, it was probably true. Moriarty had outmaneuvered him utterly, and he'd been so distracted that he'd missed it completely. It was all just too much—a new case, new feelings, keeping secrets, watching out for his archenemy—even for Sherlock Holmes, it had been just one thing too many.

As if reading his mind, Mycroft continued. "It's all just too much for one person, Sherlock, even if that person is you." He sipped his tea. "Let us take over the Adler case, and Moriarty too, for a while. I'm going to suggest some time away from London, for you and for John."

"Time away…?"

"Far too many people in London want you dead even without Moriarty's influence. Now that he's resurgent, I'm not confident that the Yard, the government, or anyone can watch you thoroughly in London."

"I told you, Mycroft, I don't want anyone watching us, not anymore—"

"My dear brother, don't you see it's too late for that?"

Mycroft watched Sherlock's features fall as the reality sunk in. "After what happened last night, I couldn't call off the surveillance if I wanted to. John would be dead within the hour."

Quite involuntarily, Sherlock gasped in pain as if stabbed and a hand flew to his heart.

"And you'd probably be dead in five." Mycroft finished, sipping his tea and sitting back in his chair.

Sherlock dropped his head into his hands and gripped his hair with his fingers. "Mycroft, things have changed. I don't know how it happened but things have changed. John—John and I—" he glanced up, willing the other man to understand without words.

Mycroft, as was his wont, did. His eyes widened slightly. "Oh, I see." He allowed himself a small smile. "That didn't take long. It's so very petty and fraternal to say I told you so, but-"

Sherlock wasn't listening; he was flooded at the same time with the warm loveliness of John and the ice-cold misery of the situation before him. He shook his head, trying to clear it. "He trusts me, Mycroft. He _trusts _me. And I've—I'm—" Sherlock shook his head slowly.

"If you tell him the truth, you'd no longer be lying to him," Mycroft offered.

Sherlock winced. "No, no, no, I can't. He'll never forgive me. And we've only just—" Sherlock stopped and ran a finger across his lips absently.

"I'm sorry, then, Sherlock. This is one puzzle I cannot help you with. I assure you that the surveillance will remain both thorough and completely discrete. But it will have to remain, there is no other option." He finished his tea and stood. "Get out of London for a time, Sherlock," he said, resting a hand on his brother's shoulder. "Take John away for a bit. Clear your mind. It'd be best for everyone."

Sherlock took a deep breath, then raised his head to say something, but Mycroft had already gone.

XXX

John was just putting the finishing touches on his letter of resignation from the clinic (which he would be mailing in; he was quite sure he could never look Sarah in the face, ever again) when he heard footfalls on the stairs.

He turned and found Sherlock standing in the doorway. He looked tense, somehow hesitant. They regarded each other for a moment.

"Hi, Sherlock," John said.

"Hello, John."

"How was Angelo's?"

Sherlock blinked. "I forgot the takeaway," he said as he himself realized his error.

John smiled. "Yeah, I thought you might." He stood and gestured to the kitchen table.

Sherlock turned. Two takeaway cartons sat facing each other, one filled with spaghetti and meatballs (John's favorite), the other with veal piccata and lemon rice (Sherlock's favorite, when Sherlock was eating). A bottle of sparkling water sat between them and a candle (_where had John found a useable candle in the flat?)_ was throwing a warm light across the whole scene.

John looked from Sherlock to the table and back again. "Had to try a candle. I've been told it's more romantic." As Sherlock stared at the meal display in front of him, John continued, babbling a little, nervously. "So, how was your morning? Did you finish everything you wanted to do? I'll be honest, I was a little surprised when you weren't here, but thanks for leaving the note, it really helped to—"

And in a blur of motion, Sherlock was on him and he was wrapped in Sherlock's arms and Sherlock was kissing him so deeply, so truly, so much so much so MUCH and whispering _I love you_ and _I'm sorry_ and _I love you_ and _I'm sorry_ and _John, John, John_. John could not ever remember being kissed this way before, as if the other person would gladly drown within you if it meant being close to you forever more. Sherlock was not an experienced kisser, John was learning, but that did not mean he couldn't be a passionate one, and as Sherlock kissed him again and breathed another _I'm sorry_, John staggered back into his chair, utterly unable to stand.

Sherlock knelt in front of him as he tried to form words. "Sherlock—wow, um, wow—Sherlock, what are you so sorry for? This morning? I told you, it's fine." He rested a hand on Sherlock's hair as the other man looked up at him. "We're fine, Sherlock, I promise. Trust me."

Something seemed to go soft inside the detective at those words, but Sherlock simply breathed and leaned up to kiss John again, more softly this time, more of a gentle warm fluttery floating instead of desperate clinging drowning. John found he liked both equally well. In fact, he liked them so much and found Sherlock was such a quick study on the many types of kisses that it was only the rumbling in his stomach that eventually forced him to break them apart, slowly.

"Veal is no good cold, Sherlock," he said, smiling into grey eyes.

"Excellent observation, John," Sherlock replied, gazing into brown ones.

"Shall we, then?"

"After you."

John stood and walked toward the table. Sherlock watched him from behind and was suddenly seized by an immensely overwhelming feeling of warmth and protection and comfort and safety and hope and light and wonder. And though the conversation with Mycroft was still very much on his mind, right now all that mattered was _John_ and _home_. It was a _feeling_. And it was so, so_ good_.

"John?"

John turned.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock wanted to say something but couldn't find the words. Finally, the taller man managed. "I love you, John Watson."

John started a little, and smiled. "Yes, so you've been saying."

Sherlock continued, a bemused expression on his face. "Yes, I know. I just realized…I don't think I've ever really understood it before." He blinked. "And you love me too?" It was a half-statement, half-question. _You, you miracle, John Watson, you feel for me what I'm feeling right now?_

John grinned. "I love you too, Sherlock Holmes." He took Sherlock's hand. And neither let go for the rest of the meal, or the rest of the afternoon, and wouldn't, if Sherlock had anything to say about it, for the rest of their lives.

* * *

_And that's that, for the first story anyway!_

_I really hope you all enjoyed it. Many of the loose threads (Adler's escape, the surveillance, Sherlock's honesty issues) will come back in future stories. The second one is still very much in-progress, so it probably won't be up for a while, but it will be (loosely) based on the concept of the Hound of the Baskervilles. What happens when S/J get out of London and encounter a series of murders of seemingly-supernatural origin? And what bumps and bruises might their fledgling relationship take along the way? Coming soon..._


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